


The Subtle Grace of Gravity

by samyazaz



Series: The Subtle Grace of Gravity [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Space, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artificial Intelligence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 120,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2546213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are plenty of rooms on the ship that have windows, but they've always been given to Security, and to those whom Security values or desires something from. Still, they can't keep the stars entirely to themselves. There are cleaning crews and service technicians who must be allowed in to do their jobs, and word spreads through them, in brief whispers exchanged in the corridors, in notes and hearsay and rumor.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>There's a planet outside, an actual planet.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this ficlet](http://samyazaz.tumblr.com/post/98477882120/defractum-said-e-r-with-either-pygmalion-or) written for the prompt "Medusa" by [defractum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nyargles/pseuds/defractum)
> 
> Betaed by the wonderful [Sovin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sovin).

There are plenty of rooms on the ship that have windows, but they've always been given to Security, and to those whom Security values or desires something from. Still, they can't keep the stars entirely to themselves. There are cleaning crews and service technicians who must be allowed in to do their jobs, and word spreads through them, in brief whispers exchanged in the corridors, in notes and hearsay and rumor that's half-garbled and entirely contradictory by the time it trickles down to Enjolras's ears. 

_There's a planet outside, an actual planet,_ is the first whisper, vibrating with excitement, with hope. 

_No, it's just a sun, look at the way it glows._

_It's a_ planet _, I saw it with my own eyes, with swirls of clouds just like the old stories say._

_It's beautiful,_ they say, and, _Maybe we've finally found it. Can you imagine? I never thought it would happen during_ my _lifetime._

Enjolras sits with Éponine in the cramped barracks they've taken over for their own, the original, assigned inhabitants long since bribed or traded or simply hacked and reassigned to other lodgings so that the whole group could be together without trying to squeeze the whole dozen of them into storage units or access rooms scarcely big enough to fit three. 

They've sliced through the walls to reveal the wiring running inside and hacked into the ship's mainframe, and they sit together now cross-legged on Éponine's bunk, their knees pressed together, their fingers flying over their datascreens as they hack their way into the old archives. 

Enjolras clears the path, lines of code flying under his fingers and breaking down Security's encryptions one by one, making way for Éponine. She comes through behind him and sorts through the files, a torrent of it, but her fingers fly as fast as Enjolras's do. Her 'screen casts a flickering blue glow across her face that makes her skin look even paler, and makes her mouth look dark as a bruise as it pinches flat in concentration. 

Eventually she sighs and shoves her datascreen off of her lap, stretching her wrists out as she scowls. "The data's corrupted. There isn't enough of it." 

Enjolras glances up from his hacking, letting his fingers still as hers have. "Encrypted? If I missed a key--" 

"No, it's not garbled, it's just _not there_." She pulls her thighs up to her chest and leans an elbow on her knee, raking fingers through her hair. "And it's not the older data that's incomplete, either, like you'd expect. We have full logs of our bearing and speed for the first"--she makes a frustrated gesture--"hundred years or so. Two hundred, maybe. But the newer the data is, the more holes I'm finding. They'll record bearing but not speed, or the reverse, or they'll just note down half a set of coordinates. It makes no sense, what's the point of such shoddy record-keeping? Why bother at all?" 

Enjolras eases out of the slouch he'd sunk into while working, grimacing as his back voices all the protests he'd ignored while the job had preoccupied his attention. "You think there's more? Could they be storing it somewhere else?" 

She drops backwards on the bed, still cross-legged to keep room for him, and stares up at the bottom of the bunk above hers. "If it were connected to the network, we'd have found it. We're good, you know we are. We wouldn't have missed it. Separate storage, maybe? Isolated from the mainframe, so we can't hack our way to it." 

"We're going to have to go exploring." 

She pushes up onto her elbows and grins at him. "For a hacker, you sure do love an opportunity to get away from the 'screen." 

"Tell me what we need," he says, gripping her knee. "Tell me what to look for and I'll find it." 

Éponine sits up and reaches for the datascreen again. "I'll make you a list of things to look out for, and holes in our blueprints big enough to house the kind of equipment they'd need to store the missing information." 

"Is there that much information missing?" Enjolras knows programming, and he's never met an encryption he couldn't break, but it's Éponine who knows the computers themselves. 

"The ship should be keeping real-time recordings of our bearing, speed, and coordinates. Factor in how many decades the incomplete information goes back and... Yeah. We're talking a few dozen zettabytes, at least. It'll take up a big chunk of space. Bigger than a dormitory, at the very least. It's not going to be tucked in a service closet somewhere." 

Enjolras's pulse quickens. There aren't many holes that size left in their blueprints. Security would limit them to their assigned quadrants if they had their way, would keep them all ignorant, but they've been able to piece together most of the puzzle, these past few years, through hacking and through more old-fashioned methods of reconnaissance. 

There aren't many holes left that are big enough for the drives that would be required to house zettabytes of data. Enjolras's fingers tighten on the edge of his datascreen. "The void," he says, and he can scarcely keep his voice from shaking with excitement. "I'll search in the void." 

Éponine's mouth goes tight and unhappy, but she doesn't protest because she knows he's right. "You'll take equipment." 

He lets out a breath and nods. 

"And you'll _be careful_ , Enjolras, because if you get yourself caught we're all going to come break you out, and you wouldn't want to put your friends at risk like that, would you?" 

"I won't. I promise." He pulls the datascreen out of her grip so that he can clasp hers hands. "I'll be careful." 

She doesn't look much reassured, and he supposes that's probably warranted. He's known for a lot of things, amongst their group, but being cautious probably isn't top of that list. 

"I'll send a message to Feuilly," she says, extricating her hands from his. "His shift ends soon. You'll let him load you up with whatever toys he cares to, and you won't voice a word of complaint." 

There's no room for debate in her tone, so Enjolras doesn't. 

It's been ages since any of them pushed at the boundaries of the void, the biggest gap in their knowledge of the ship and its layout. It's deep in the belly of the ship, down past the cargo holds and storage blocks where they've never found anything of import. But this section of the ship, bigger than an entire living quadrant, has defied their abilities to map it. More often than not, they can't even get close before Security shows up and they have to retreat, or risk official detainment. 

But this is important. If Security is hiding information from them, it's worth the risk. 

"You needn't look so excited," Éponine says, dry, but her lips are curled into a wry smile. "You'll probably get yourself sentenced to detainment for life over this, you know." 

"I'm not going to get caught." 

She sighs and shuts her datascreen off. "If you sounded less certain about that, I'd be more reassured." She stretches out on her bunk again, pushing at him with her feet until he slides off and makes room for her. "Go on, back to your own bunk. I'm going to catch what sleep I can until Feuilly's off. Goodness knows, you're not likely to let me rest at all once you've got the void in your sights." 

He squeezes her shoulder before he moves away. "I won't run off without you, I promise." 

"Damn right you won't," she says, and makes it sound as much a promise as a threat. 

He shuts off the lights illuminating her bunk before he leaves her. They've all developed the ability to sleep at a moment's notice no matter how uncomfortable the conditions -- they've had to, by necessity -- but she'll sleep sounder without the lights shining on her face. And she's right, they're all likely to need as much as much rest as they can get. The void's never yielded its secrets easily. 

Enjolras should follow suit and rest as well, but he can't. He sits in his own bunk with his datascreen on his knees, hacking through Security's files, searching for any hint as to what they're hiding in the void. He's done it a hundred times before and come up with nothing, but once more won't hurt. 

If nothing else, it'll keep his restless mind occupied, and keep him from breaking his promise to Éponine and running off before they have a chance to plan this properly. 

And maybe, just maybe, this time he'll learn something useful. 

* 

Feuilly gets a thoughtful look when Enjolras explains the plan to him. "The biggest danger is getting lost," he says. "Or getting found and detained, which may as well be counted as the same thing. Either way, we're not likely to ever see you again." 

Enjolras nods once and lets him work through it, lets him follow whatever idea it is that's put that considering expression on his face. 

"Two days," he says at length. "Give me two days for fabrication and I'll have something made up for you." 

Two days feels like torture when every minute that passes carries them closer and closer to the planet. Soon they'll have passed it entirely and it will disappear behind them just like the others. If they're going to figure out what planet this is, where they are, what Security knows that would cause them to pass up nearly half a dozen likely-looking planets in the past generations and why they won't share that knowledge with the rest of them, then they're going to need to do it quickly. 

Enjolras doesn't push for faster. If he did, he knows Feuilly would try to give it to him, and he'd risk relying upon hastily-finished equipment with him. If he gets detained by Security because his equipment failed on him, he knows the others will get themselves detained as well trying to hunt him down and break him out. He'll risk a lot, but he won't risk that. 

"Two days," he agrees with a smile, and if it's a little strained, Feuilly is kind enough not to mention it. "I look forward to seeing what you come up with." 

* 

Two days later, Feuilly has an array of gadgets to lay out before him, running through each in turn and explaining its purpose and use. The standout is a small unit tucked inside the casing of a disassembled datascreen battery pack, innocuous enough not to raise any eyebrows should Security stop and search him but, as Feuilly demonstrates, housing a powerful homing beacon inside. 

"You turn this on," Feuilly says, showing him the hidden catch that will activate the beacon, "and we'll be able to find you, wherever you are in the ship. There's an alarm here--" he shows Enjolras another camouflaged switch "--if you activate that, it'll let us know we need to come get you straightaway." 

Enjolras takes it from Feuilly and turns it around in his hands, testing the catches and his ability to find and differentiate them with a touch. 

"There's a failsafe, of course." Feuilly shows him that, too. "If you're not back to these coordinates within an hour of setting out, the alarm is activated. If anyone tries to circumvent the alarms without following the proper protocols, it'll send up the alarm as well." 

Enjolras smiles at him, and clasps his shoulder. "You thought of everything," he says in approval. 

Feuilly turns a little pink, but his pleased flush is tempered by the depth of concern in his gaze. "I did my best," he says quietly, and Enjolras knows it's more than just self-deprecation. 

"I'll use it," Enjolras promises. "Let's run through it again, make sure I've got it down." 

* 

They take another two days to plan, until Enjolras can reach into a pocket where Feuilly's beacon is resting and tell the alarm trigger from the activation catch by feel alone, and the rest of the group has been briefed on the plan. They wait until shift change, when Security will hopefully be preoccupied with the extra people in the halls and less inclined to notice one wayward worker venturing out of their assigned quadrant. 

Enjolras activates the beacon and leaves the receiver with Combeferre, pressing the device into his hands and helping his fingers find the control buttons. "One hour," he says. "I'll be back. I promise. If I'm not--" 

"--we send out the hounds," Combeferre finishes for him, smiling a crooked smile, his eyes fixed on a point just to the side of Enjolras's face. Enjolras has seen others squirm beneath his gaze before, unnerved by the sense that Combeferre won't look at them and unaware that the scars clouding his eyes meant that they saw nothing at all. But Enjolras knows Combeferre will have Feuilly's echo transmitter tucked in place over his ear, carefully hidden behind his dreadlocks, so Enjolras knows he can see his expression, can read it when Enjolras smiles and shakes his head. 

"You _stay safe._ " 

"I can't promise that," Enjolras says with a sigh. Combeferre is his best friend, his _first_ friend, so he can admit that where he wouldn't with the others. Combeferre understands that there are things that are more important. 

But Combeferre reaches out and grips his hand, tight enough to know he means it as a warning, not a comfort. "I don't want to have to break into Security to drag you back home," he says, his voice hard. "And I don't want to have to sew you up if Security decides there are easier ways of dealing with a trespasser than hauling you all the way back up to detainment. You stay safe, Enjolras. The void isn't going anywhere." 

Enjolras curls his fingers around Combeferre's, holding on to him in return. Combeferre can see shapes and movement, with the help of Feuilly's transmitter and an implanted receiver, but touch is still an easier, more direct way to get his point across. "What about the planet?" he asks quietly. "The void's not going anywhere, but the planet is. We need to know what's down there. We need to know _why_." 

Combeferre sighs and looks unhappy, but doesn't argue. "Go on," he says instead, pulling his hand from Enjolras's. "The beacon's timer is already running down. Might as well make the most of what time you've got." 

Enjolras nods once, clasps his shoulder, and then rises and leaves. 

* 

It's easy to make his way to the edge of the void, beacon in one pocket and datascreen in the other. They know these halls well, know where it behooves them to take a side corridor to avoid being noticed and where it's safe to join the after-shift crowd making their way back to their quarters, flowing along with the tide. 

The edge of the void lies halfway down a long hallway whose end they've never managed to reach, always waylaid by the unfortunate arrival of Security's guards come to chase them away. This hall is empty, despite the crowds just beyond it, and that only serves to make the hairs on the back of Enjolras's neck stand on end. Whatever's down here, it's not living quarters or work stations. And all these people just walk by it every day, oblivious to the fact that Security is keeping secrets from them. 

He stops a third of the way down the hall, crouches down against the wall and pulls his datascreen out. He already has a few lines of code preprogrammed into the device, so all he has to do is hack his way into the wireless signal and activate them before anyone notices his presence. 

There's no sign that the code worked, but the lines of code on his screen scroll happily past and he sees nothing in them that would suggest it failed to disarm the hallway's sensors as it was intended to. So he rises, slips his datascreen back into his pocket, and continues down along the hall. With every step, his shoulders draw tight, braced for the pounding rhythm of boots on the floor behind him, for an authoritative cry, for the cold steel of Security's magcuffs circling his wrists. 

For once, there's nothing, even as Enjolras reaches the end of the corridor, farther than they've ever made it before. The hallway ends here, intersecting with another running perpendicular. Enjolras only deliberates a moment before he turns left, taking the one that will lead him deeper into the void. 

Ten minutes later, he's left the known areas of the ship far behind him when his datascreen vibrates and pings a warning against his hip. He stops and pulls it out, sees that the lines of code have stilled on the screen behind the warning flashing NO SIGNAL, slow and steady. 

A chill crawls down Enjolras's spine, and a thrill of excitement follows quickly behind it. In the whole vast expanse of the ship, Enjolras has never before found a place where the wireless signal didn't reach. It's pervasive, omnipresent. It's how Security communicates with them, how they communicate with each other. Being without it feels as foreign and alarming as suddenly finding himself in a room without oxygen. 

For there to be no signal down here in these halls, it must be blocked. Shielded. This isn't poor design, this is _intentional_. Enjolras's breath quickens, and he slides the datascreen back into his pocket and continues, keeping his ears tuned for any hint of Security's approach, and his eyes always scanning for anything that might give him a clue as to where the missing servers might be housed. 

At half an hour, Feuilly's beacon gives a warning buzz against his hip and Enjolras knows he should turn back, should start making his way out. They've made significant progress in filling in some of the missing pieces of map in the void and that matters, that's important, even if he didn't find the servers. But the corridor ahead of him is darkened, the lights overhead flickering unsteadily as if to suggest he's reached a part of the ship that's so deep and so distant that it's been abandoned, wireless signal unnecessary, the wiring shoddy or power supply unsteady and not worth repairing, the hall ahead of him long and empty and not worth the time it would take to follow it to its end. 

Perhaps an ordinary citizen might be fooled. Or perhaps Security underestimates them all, but the fact of the matter is that the ship is far too overcrowded to afford to waste space. An empty, abandoned corridor raises more questions than it answers. Enjolras feels in his bones that this is it, and so he ignores the beacon's warning and works his way down the hall. 

Halfway down its length, doors slide out of the walls, clanging shut with the hiss of hydraulics. If Enjolras had been half a meter ahead of where he was, he'd have been smashed between them. 

There's a control panel on the door, but no controls, just the same words flashing across the screen, cycling through almost too fast to read. _DO-NOT-ENTER-STAY-AWAY-TURN-BACK-LEAVE-AT-ONCE-DANGER-DANGER-DANGER._

Enjolras huffs a breath of disbelieving laughter. The more desperately Security tries to keep him away from whatever it is they're hiding down here, the more they tip their hand about its importance. 

He pulls his datascreen from his pocket once more and plugs it into the diagnostic terminal tucked just beneath the edge of the control panel's screen. Half a dozen quick lines of code send Security's warning scrambling away into jittery lines just before it goes black. The hydraulics hiss as they vent the air pressure keeping the doors sealed shut. 

They don't open automatically, but without the pneumatic pressure behind them, Enjolras is able to pry them apart through sheer muscle power, opening a gap wide enough for him to squeeze through and continue on. 

The corridor ends in another door, another control panel. This one flashes red. _CAUTION-ATTENTION-CUIDADO-ATTENZIONE_ , and a dozen other languages Enjolras doesn't speak, but he can guess well enough their meaning as they blink across the screen, over and over again. 

Enjolras's six lines of code have little effect, this time. He frowns and bends his head over the datascreen, his fingers flying, code filling up the screen as he tries to hack past the protocols. Whatever data Security's got hidden away here must be even more valuable -- or even more damning -- than they'd already considered, or else why would they try so hard to scare people away? 

Just as Enjolras is starting to think he'll have to retreat before his beacon goes off and come back later with studier equipment, the control panel beeps and the red warning screens fade away to emptiness. He shoulders the doors open and steps through into a room as bright and cold as an operating suite. 

After the constant light of the corridor, the brightness of the room is blinding. Enjolras squints against it, one hand coming up to shield his eyes, and so he sees nothing -- but he hears the ragged gasp. 

"No no no no no no no no." That's a man's voice, a _human_ voice. Enjolras takes another step forward, drawn by the panic in it. "What are you doing here you can't be here you have to _go._ " 

Enjolras starts to drop his hand, to search for the other man. As soon as he does, the lights in the room flare even brighter, blinding, _painful_. He spins away, throwing an arm up to shield himself. "Who are you?" he asks even as the light brings tears to his eyes, making everything blurry and indistinct. "Why are you being held prisoner here? What can I do to help you?" 

There's a long, long pause. When the man breaks the silence it's with a laugh, harsh and brittle. "I'm no prisoner." 

"Those doors were locked." 

"They're not to keep _me in_. Can't you read?" His words are harsh but the panic is slowly seeping out of them. The lights are fading, not growing dim but at least easing back to a brightness that's not quite so intolerable. 

"I've yet to see anything in here worth those dire warnings," Enjolras says. 

"You don't see anything at all." The man's words are weighted strangely, as though there's a double meaning to them that Enjolras can't understand. 

He lowers his arm slowly. He still has his back to the man, but the doors are right ahead of him and they're metal. No one's cared to bother polishing anything down here to a mirror shine, but still, they're smooth enough. Enjolras sees his own slightly-blurred reflection, and behind him there's another shape, someone else standing backlit by the room's lights, thick wires coming off of his head like hair, like snakes, and trailing across the ground to turn into an indistinct blur behind him. 

"What have they done to you?" Enjolras asks on a breath, horrified. 

The man just laughs again, harsh again. "You think you know everything. What I am now, I've no one to blame but myself. _Don't,_ " he snarls as Enjolras turns around, and the lights go painful and blinding again, so all Enjolras can see of him is an indistinct, backlit shadow. 

"I'm not afraid of you." 

"You're a fool." 

"What's your name?" 

He's quiet for a long, long time, long enough that Enjolras wonders if he means to answer at all. 

"You're a man," he says gently, stepping forward. The man makes a harsh sound, and the shape shrinks back. "You must have a name." 

"Grantaire," he says at last, thoughtfully. "That's what you call me, I think." 

"Grantaire?" Enjolras echoes it, uncertain, because he's quite sure he's never called this man anything before in his life. 

"It means something. I don't remember what." Grantaire's voice goes sharp with frustration. 

_Grantaire,_ Enjolras thinks, and something that has been stirring in the back of his mind flares brilliantly to life. 

No one's seen the hull of the ship in centuries. Her name is forgotten. She's called _R_ on official paperwork, has been all Enjolras's life. Security would maintain that it stands for _Republique_ , and Enjolras and his friends like to claim it stands for _Revolution_ , but at the end of the day, all anyone calls her is _R._

Grand R. 

Enjolras stares at the blurred shape that is the man and loses his breath. "You're the ship?" 

Grantaire is silent for a moment. "You're a quick study." 

Enjolras has a hundred questions, a thousand. He sorts through them all and comes up with one. The most important, the most perplexing. "Why do you lock yourself away down here? All those dire warnings, and you're just a man." 

"I'm not _just_ anything, not anymore. I'm--" Grantaire makes a sharp, frustrated sound. "I've lost the words for it. There's a quantum-- something. _Damn it._ " He takes a breath, starts over. "Men go mad when they look at me. Or blind. Or drop over dead on the spot. You can't be here. _You can't see me._ " 

"I'm not leaving you like this." 

"You don't have a choice," Grantaire says, and flares the lights so high Enjolras can't see anything and tears flow like rivers down his cheeks. 

"Stop that!" He storms forward toward where Grantaire's voice had been coming from, close enough he can feel the blistering heat coming off the lights. He grabs Grantaire by the arms and shakes him, growls, " _Stop_ that," once more. 

Grantaire gasps and kills the lights, dropping them straight into complete darkness. He vibrates like a wire against Enjolras's hands. 

"How long as it been?" Enjolras asks him quietly. "How long since you've had actual, human company?" 

"Forever," Grantaire says distantly, dreamily. 

Enjolras gives a sharp exhale. "No wonder you've forgotten that you're at least as much man as you are machine." He tightens his hands on Grantaire's arms, feels his pulse batter against his thumbs. "I'm going to get you out of here." 

Grantaire chokes on a laugh. "Oh God, you can't." He moves, sliding his hand into Enjolras's, guiding both their hands up to the wires buried in his scalp. "I'm tethered." 

"I'm a hacker," Enjolras says. "I've been hacking the ship's protocols -- _your_ protocols -- since I was old enough to fit my hands to a keyboard. You've never stopped me before." 

"What are you going to do? Cut me free, lead me out of here?" 

"Yes." 

"Harm or kill half the ship's occupants before you believe me?" 

"We'll find a way around that." 

"We?" Grantaire echoes quietly. 

"Me, and some friends of mine. We've been working against Security for a while now. We're going to make sure everyone on this ship is free." He slides a hand up, touches the edge of Grantaire's jaw lightly. "That means you, too." 

"You're mad," Grantaire says, but he sounds in awe. 

"I have to go." Enjolras regrets it more than anything, but he's already used up most of the hour on the beacon's timer. They'll come after him if he's not back by the time it goes off, they'll come here, and they won't be careful or quiet about it. If Security knows that they know about Grantaire... 

He insists he's not a prisoner, but that void on their map isn't his doing. Security wouldn't be working so hard to keep people away from this room, if they didn't have something to hide. 

They can do this. Enjolras has no doubt about that. But they need to sit down together, them and their datascreens, and start making a plan. They can do it, but he doesn't doubt that it'll be the most difficult thing they've ever done, either. 

" _Please,_ " Grantaire says, and Enjolras doesn't know if he's begging him to go, or begging him to stay. 

"I'll be back." 

"You shouldn't." 

"We're going to figure this out." 

Grantaire sighs like he already knows the battle's lost. 

"If there's any information you can give us, anything that isn't public knowledge, it'd help--" 

"Just go." 

Enjolras grips his arms again, just for a moment. "I'm coming back. Don't lock me out." 

Grantaire says nothing. And the beacon's already buzzing insistently against Enjolras's hip, its last warning before it activates the alarm, so there's nothing Enjolras can do but release him and turn and walk away. 

The doors hiss shut behind him as soon as he steps into the corridor. The lights that were flickering and unsteady on the way in now shine bright, leading him out. 

He goes. As soon as he gets out of the void and the wireless signal reappears, he messages Combeferre to tell him he's on his way back and not to worry. He tells him to gather the others. 

Enjolras is still only halfway back when his datascreen pings at his hip. He stops long enough to pull it out and look at the alert that's come in. 

_1 new message. From:_

It should be impossible to send or receive a message without a source attached. Everyone on the ship has their own ID, their own account. Everything anyone does is recorded and logged, Security has seen to that. 

Enjolras opens the message with unsteady hands. 

Information scrolls across his screen, blueprints and schematics racing by too quick to make sense of, more than enough to fill in the void in their map and flesh out the details in those areas they've already charted. When they've finished loading onto his unit, the datascreen displays the actual message: 

_Don't get caught,_ it says. _Don't get hurt._

_Thank you,_

_R._

Enjolras grins fiercely. He forwards the message to the rest of his friends and hurries to meet with them. They've got a lot of planning to do, before they can even hope to win Grantaire his freedom.


	2. Chapter 2

Enjolras wants to wander, wants to walk the ship's halls until his legs burn and the restlessness of his mind has been eased. Until he can sit and think about Grantaire and everything he's learned in the past hour without feeling like his thoughts are spinning off untethered. There's nowhere safe to do so, though, and with Grantaire's imprisonment fresh in his mind, he won't feel any security until he's back in the barracks with the door barred, all his friends around him. 

How is he supposed to explain any of this to them? How is he supposed to tell them that the ship is a man, and not sound like he lost his mind down in the void? If they believe him at all, they're going to have questions, and he doesn't have any answers. He didn't even _see_ Grantaire, not properly. 

Every footstep in the hall behind him makes his heart jump, sure that it's Security come to drag him away to detainment, or worse. He's always figured he'd end up there someday, but now he's got friends who will put themselves at risk for his sake if that happens, and whom he'd rather keep safe. 

Now there's Grantaire. If Enjolras is thrown into a detainment cell before he even has a chance to tell anyone about Grantaire's existence, carrying the knowledge of his predicament along with him, he thinks it will truly drive him mad. 

The footsteps, inevitably, are just other people going about their day, making their way to a shift at work or returning to their barracks after they've put in their hours for the day. By the time Enjolras reaches his own barracks, he's breathing too hard, too fast. He slides inside and shuts the door behind him, secures the bolt Feuilly jerry-rigged to the inside to give them all a bit of privacy, so they can gather and speak and plan without fear of Security walking in on them any time that it likes. As soon as the bolt is shut, he releases a heavy breath and leans back against the door, gripping the handle with fingers that seem to have forgotten how to let go. 

Combeferre is there in an instant, reaching out for him, fingers tracing along his face and the line of his brows as though he doubts his [augmented] senses. "What is it? What happened? Your message said all was well." 

Enjolras takes Combeferre's hand in his, pulls it away from his face and squeezes it. If his attention isn't guided elsewhere, Combeferre will focus too hard on the unhappy turn to Enjolras's mouth and the troubled set to his brows. Enjolras isn't the one who needs his focus right now. "My message said I'd made it out of the void without incident," he says, and he knows Combeferre well enough to know that he'll understand, that he'll pull himself up straight and frown as he tries to parse through Enjolras's sentence and what it might mean, why he'd make a point of differentiating the two. 

"Something happened after you'd left the void?" Combeferre's hand clenches tight at his side, his shoulders going rigid with alarm. "It should have been safe out there, Security shouldn't have had any reason--" 

"No. I wasn't stopped." Enjolras pushes off the door with a sigh and turns Combeferre around to move with him with a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get the others together. If I tell you this story now, I'll only have to tell it again to everyone else. Is everyone here?" 

"Feuilly's at his shift. He'll be back within the hour." 

Enjolras's mouth tightens. He really, really doesn't want to have to explain this all twice. But sitting amongst his friends for an hour without being able to speak the truth and tell them what he saw... He doesn't think he's capable of that. He thinks the truth will come bursting out of him like air from an airlock as soon as someone looks at him a little too closely and asks him what's wrong. 

"I'm going to go wash," he says, and leaves Combeferre behind him to go slip into the narrow shower attached to their barracks. 

He strips down quickly, drops his clothing down the laundry chute and takes a fresh, folded pair from the laundry closet, as well as a towel. Then he turns the water as hot as it will allow and stands under the spray, breathing in the steam and the mild scent of the soap as it rises all around him. 

It doesn't feel like washing himself clean, or like all the stress and worries of the day disappear down the drain with the wash water. He wishes it did. But he at least has five minutes to himself, five minutes of hot water pounding down on the tense muscles of his shoulders, five minutes where no one can look at him and tell in a glance that something's wrong, where he doesn't have to answer anyone's questions or figure out how to explain Grantaire. 

It's not much, and it's over far too soon. The pipes clang as the shower shuts itself off, his water allotment for the day all used up. He could beg one of the others to key their code in and let him use theirs, and they probably would. But that request would bring more questions with it. It's not worth it, he decides, and steps out of the stall to grab the towel and quickly dry himself off. 

He lingers even once he's dressed, sitting on the toilet's edge and breathing in the lingering steam. He can hear noises outside, the quiet rhythms of conversation, the sounds of his friends going about their days. And all the while, none of them aware that deep in the belly of their ship is a man tethered to a machine, a man Security seems willing to go to great lengths to keep secret, a man who's been alone for so long that even the thought of being looked upon terrifies him. 

He leaves the bathroom as the steam starts to cool and his shirt starts to stick to his back. Combeferre glances up and over when he comes out, familiar enough with him that he can no doubt tell Enjolras's stride from the others'. His expression is troubled, concerned, but he doesn't ask any of the questions Enjolras is bracing for. He holds out a tray that holds a bowl of thin soup, a slice of crusty bread, and a cup of tea upon it. "Bahorel was going to the mess hall anyway. We figured you'd be hungry." 

Enjolras smiles and waves to Bahorel, catches his eye and then inclines his head toward the tray and mouths, _Thank you._

Bahorel touches two fingers to his brow in a light-hearted salute. There's a question in his eyes, too, but he leaves it unvoiced and leans in to better hear what Jehan is saying to him. 

Enjolras's friends are all much too good for him. He doesn't know what he ever did to deserve any of them. 

He eats quickly, while the soup's still warm and the bread still fresh. Beside him, Combeferre sits with their shoulders brushing, his datascreen in his lap, the extension that was Courfeyrac's idea and Feuilly's design clicking as it translates the datascreen's information into series of letters that he can feel pulsing against his fingertips. His echo transmitter enables Combeferre to detect shapes in an incredible amount of detail, but it can't convey color, and before the alteration datascreens were unusable for him, their smooth glass displays as featureless to his senses as if they were perpetually powered down. 

It's a comforting sound, and a comforting routine. They've sat together like this any number of evenings, eating or reading or some combination of the two. Every so often Combeferre will give a little grunt of interest, say, "You'll never believe this," and rattle off some fact or statistic he's just found. 

It's normal, and that steadies Enjolras. His chest doesn't feel quite so tight with panic by the time he's finished eating. He carries the tray and bowl over to the receptacle and comes back with just the tea, cupped between his hands so he can warm his fingers on its sides. 

"Thank you," he says quietly as he settles down on the bunk again. 

Combeferre's brow quirks up. "For dinner? You should thank Bahorel for that." 

"Not for dinner." 

"Oh." Combeferre's lips curve. "Then you're welcome." 

"Any word on Feuilly?" 

"I messaged him when you got back. When it was clear you came back with news. His shift ended a few minutes ago, so he should be back imminently, dependent upon how crowded the halls are tonight." 

As though on cue, there's a rattle at the barrack door as the bolt Enjolras threw does its job, and then Feuilly's voice, full of consternation. "It's just me." There's a sound like the rap of knuckles against metal. "Let me in?" 

Joly's closest, though not by much since Bossuet and Musichetta are at his side. Still, he rises and makes for the door with a light-hearted grumble so Feuilly will know he's not being ignored. His right foot scuffs across the floor as he walks, a poor fit with the mismatched joint and calf that Feuilly wired together for him, and hasn't been able to make work well with one another. It gives him a limp, and necessitates his cane, and any one of the rest of them could get to the door quicker and easier. But Joly doesn't care about easy, and he cares a lot about being patronized. He claimed this task for his own when he got to his feet, so they all keep their places and let him do it. Sometimes the wiring in his leg shorts out and the parts just decide to quit communicating with one another entirely, but if he stumbles Joly's more likely than not to be able to catch himself with a quick flick of his wrist and repositioning of his cane. And should that fail him, there are plenty of bunks and chairs and other furniture in the barracks for him to hold onto, to keep on his feet. Enjolras has seen him have trouble out in the ship's corridors, where everything is smooth and slick and there's nothing at all to grab onto should he lose his balance, but he's comfortable here. He's safe, and they're all glad for it. 

Joly reaches the door and slides the bolt free, then stands back. The door's too heavy for him to pull open by himself, not with only one good leg and one hand occupied by his cane. He's done it before, Enjolras has seen him, throwing his shoulder against the door's weight to force it open. But it's more difficult than just walking across the barracks and usually, when life or other people haven't conspired to make him frustrated beyond belief at his limitations, he's content to allow others to get the door open themselves. 

Feuilly knows him as well as the rest of them do. He waits a moment after the bolt slides free, to give Joly a chance to get out of the way, and then opens the door and comes inside, swinging it shut behind himself again. He throws the bolt and his gaze goes straight to Enjolras. "Have I been holding things up?" 

"Just a little. Come on, let's get everyone gathered so I only have to tell this once." 

There's a scramble, then, everyone suddenly in motion as they go through the familiar routine of pushing three of the bunks together, making a broad surface that they can all climb on and pile into. It's a close fit, but they're close friends, and none of them minds. 

Enjolras ends up at the head of the bed, pushing everyone's pillows aside to make room for him to sit. He still has his tea and he stares down into its brown depths as everyone watches him, waiting. He doesn't even know how to begin to explain this. 

"I think," he says, slowly, haltingly. "I think I found the reason the void exists. I think I found what Security's been trying so hard to keep us away from." 

"The missing data drives?" Éponine asks, looking eager. 

Enjolras shakes his head. "Not drives. A person. A man." 

He waits for a reaction, gets nothing but their taut, attentive silence. It's reassuring, at least. He lets a breath out and allows himself to glance up, to meet the gazes of his friends gathered around him, watching him, every ear turned to his tale. "A man," he says again. "A prisoner, near as I can tell, though he'll argue with you if you say as much to his face. He said his name-- He said he's called Grantaire." 

Enjolras lets that settle over the group, let's them take it in. 

"Grantaire," Courfeyrac says abruptly, a light in his eyes like he's made the connection. He's the first of them to do so. He always was good with nuances. " _Grand R._ " 

"Yes," Enjolras says, and the barracks explodes into a riot of noise, everyone clamoring over each other. He hears protests -- "But it's a pun, it's just a pun, who doesn't like puns, it must just be someone's idea of a joke" -- and he hears wonder, and sees it on many of their faces. 

"He's not _just_ a man," Enjolras says when the noise has died down some. And then he winces, recalling that he'd said the exact opposite to Grantaire himself, that Grantaire had corrected him. "You didn't see him. He's wired into the ship. He didn't have a console but he could control the lights, the doors... He's the ship." It sounds mad to say it here like this, surrounded by the life he's always known. It was easier in front of Grantaire, with the sight of him forcing away all other thoughts, with the evidence of what he is undeniable before him. 

Éponine goes on the alert suddenly, leaning forward to grip Enjolras's knee and demand his attention. "If he's the ship, then he'd know," she says. "Whatever it is they're hiding, wherever the missing data's gone, they can't keep it from _him_. He can tell us where the information's being stored, and how to get to it." 

"Maybe," Enjolras says. It's as much as he's willing to concede. Whatever had happened to Grantaire -- or whatever he'd done to himself, as he had seemed to insist -- Enjolras isn't sure that it hasn't left him half mad in the wake of it. And who could blame him? Enjolras isn't sure he could handle the strain of encompassing the entirety of a ship that holds thousands, either. Any mind would break under that kind of a load. 

"What's the plan?" Combeferre asks, his voice quiet over all the others. He doesn't have to ask if Enjolras has one. They know each other well. 

"We're going to get him out," Courfeyrac says before Enjolras can answer, sure in his response. And he knows Enjolras well, too, both of them his oldest friends. He looks at Enjolras with one brow lifted, as though daring him to contradict him. "Right? You said he's a prisoner. We'd have broken you out, if you were detained." 

Enjolras can't help but smile, a lot fond and a little sad. "This isn't going to be as easy as breaking into the detainment facility." 

"Oh good." Bahorel's smile is sharp and fierce. He cracks his knuckles. "We haven't had a proper challenge in weeks, we're overdue for one." 

Everyone seems pretty much in agreement with that sentiment. Éponine looks like she already wants to have her hands on a keyboard, hacking away at any protocols that stand in their way. Joly, who's a physician in the ship's sickbay, and Combeferre, who was training to be the same before the loss of his vision made Security deem him unsuitable for the task, both seem intrigued by the very concept of Grantaire, and Enjolras is sure they're already making lists of questions to pepper him with about his physiology and body functions. The others have their own reasons for being interested, Enjolras knows. Cosette's been trying for years to locate the detainment cell her father was thrown into, and a man who has access to every one of the ship's records could help them immensely with that. Bahorel's their expert at using force to access places that Enjolras and Éponine can't hack their way into, and it's been months since they've had use for his particular skills. Enjolras is sure he's spoiling for a good fight. 

"We can't all go," Enjolras says, and half the group deflates, though anyone with sense would have known that was coming if they thought on it. "We're too large a group. I made it past Security alone, but a dozen of us moving through the halls would catch their eye, no matter what time we left." 

"Who, then?" Jehan asks, settling back down onto the mattress. 

Enjolras thinks for a moment. "Combeferre," he says first. "I'm sure we'll need a physician's eye, and Joly--" 

"--can't move fast enough, if we're discovered and have to run for our lives," Joly finishes for him with a twisted smile that holds as much bitterness as understanding. He waves a hand when Enjolras would speak. "No, you're right, of course. I wouldn't want to slow you down. And I wouldn't want any of you to have to break into detainment to rescue me. Of course it's Combeferre." 

"And Éponine," Enjolras says. Their computer skills complement each other well, and if Grantaire changes his mind about letting them help, it would be good to have her there with him, hacking beside him. "And Bahorel," he decides at the last. Because Grantaire likes to throw doors up in Enjolras's face, and Bahorel excels at kicking them down. "Four's more than enough. We're just going to do reconnaissance, try to get a better look at things and assess what needs to be done. I couldn't stay long enough to do so last time because of the beacon. I didn't want you all to worry." 

That earns him smiles all around. "We'll only worry more if there's four of you instead of one," Feuilly points out. "But I can alter the beacon, give you guys a bit more time. Two hours?" 

"Two hours, and the ability to delay it without setting off the alarm if we're coming close to the deadline and there's still work to be done." 

Feuilly looks less than pleased by that suggestion, but he nods and says, "That's more tricky, and I've got another shift again tomorrow. It'll take me a few days." 

"That's fine. We'll need them. I'd rather not push our luck with Security and try to get back again right away. It'll be safer if we give it a few days, just in case I set off any suspicions. Get some rest," he adds, and clasps Feuilly's shoulder. "There's time enough, and you look like you could fall asleep sitting up." 

"I'm fairly sure I could." Feuilly gives him a thankful smile and leans into his touch, before he extricates himself from the group on the beds and makes his way over to his own bunk. 

His departure seems to signal the end of the gathering, as others move to untangle limbs and make their way off of the beds. "Wait," Enjolras says to Éponine as she starts to slide away, and he reaches out to catch her by the arm. "There's more. You'll want to see this." 

She comes back, looking intrigued but also more than a little concerned. "But not the others?" 

"They'll like to know of it. I won't keep it from them." Combeferre is lingering, listening to their conversation, and Courfeyrac hasn't so much as budged from his place beside Enjolras. Enjolras leans his shoulder in against him, so he knows he's welcome, and beckons Éponine back. "They won't be able to make as much use of it as you will. As we will." 

That catches her interest and has the light of intrigue brightening her gaze. She slides across the bed, coming in closer so she can sit beside Enjolras, the three of them pressed into a tight little knot. "What is it?" 

"Give me your 'screen?" He holds his hand out for it and she passes it over without question. 

It's quick work to pair the two, and only takes a moment longer to transfer the files from his unit to hers. When he hands it back, Éponine's gaze flicks across the screen and her eyes go wide. "Holy crap." She clutches the datascreen between her hands. "Holy _crap_." 

"What is it?" Combeferre asks, moving closer to them again. 

"It's... It's _everything_. Oh, stars above." Éponine's throat works. She looks like maybe she wants to cry. 

Enjolras knows the feeling. They've worked for so many years to piece their map together. And now, to have the final, most elusive pieces handed to them... it feels like a miracle. 

"Blueprints," Enjolras says for Combeferre's sake, when Éponine seems too overcome to finish answering him. "Grantaire sent me blueprints." 

There's a slight, puzzled crease between Combeferre's brows as he settles onto the edge of the pushed-together beds. "Of what?" 

"Of everything." Enjolras can't help the smile that stretches across his face at that. "Near as I can tell, it's everything we've been missing. Everything in the void. It's all there." There is no void anymore. They've got the whole ship mapped out now, the work of years completed in a single file transfer. 

"All right," Éponine says, choked. "I'm a believer." She grips her datascreen with hands that have gone white-knuckled, as though she fears it might disappear if she doesn't keep it in a death grip. "I'm going to go integrate these into our database. You guys work on a plan, yeah? Because whoever this guy is, whatever he is, if this is the kind of information he has access to then we need him on our side." 

Enjolras nods and waves her off to go organize the data. Combeferre slides in to take her place. Enjolras reaches out and grips his knee, a silent thank-you. This feels good and sure and right, having his best friends beside him, having a goal before them and the information that they need in order to plan for and achieve it. 

"All right," he says, and gathers them both close. "Let me run this by you, you guys can point out where I'm being an idiot. Here's what I'm thinking..."


	3. Chapter 3

With the time it takes Feuilly to alter the beacon, Éponine gets the new blueprints added to their database and starts going through them with Enjolras. Together, and with Grantaire's information, they're able to find a better path through the ship back to him. Grantaire's blueprints don't only have layouts and purposes listed, but security measures as well. His maps tell where Security's cameras and sensors are located in each room and corridor, as well as where their blind spots are. Armed with that information, they plot a route through the shop back to Grantaire, one that should keep them safe from discovery despite their larger group. 

When Feuilly comes to Enjolras with the reassembled beacon in his hands and says, "All right, let me show you how to delay the timer, though I really hope you won't abuse this function," Éponine swears. 

"Oh fuck you, I've got my shift in half an hour," she says. And then, just as quickly, "Never mind, I'll call in. They can do without me for one shift." 

"You'll get sent to Sickbay," Enjolras protests. "And you'll be given extra duty when they realize you faked it. We need you. We can wait until after your shift to go." 

"They won't be down here to collect me for Sickbay until after we're back, you know they won't. And Joly's working that shift, he'll vouch for me." 

Éponine's not the sort to be talked out of something once she's set her mind to it, and she has an avid light in her eyes that will not be denied. Using Joly to feign an illness will only make things more complicated, not less, but she'll likely drag him off to the void by his ear. 

"You gather up Bahorel, then, and I'll get Combeferre," Enjolras says, and can't help but grin when Éponine whoops with delight and scrambles off to obey. 

Enjolras finds Combeferre and lets him know that they're ready. He gathers up his datascreen and excuses himself from his conversation with Courfeyrac, and in moments the four of them are slipping out through the barrack's door. Enjolras lifts the beacon to show it to Feuilly through the half-open door, lets him see Enjolras activating the two-hour alarm. 

Feuilly flashes him a grin in response. In a moment, it's cut off as they swing the door shut behind themselves. The bolt rattles as one of the others inside slides it home and Éponine's datascreen beeps as she pulls up the blueprints that will lead them on their way. 

It's a more circuitous route they take this time than Enjolras took on his own. It's a quieter hour than at shift change, and the halls are quiet. They'd attract attention in their group, but the information Grantaire sent them helps them take smaller service corridors and unmonitored rooms. Still, their instincts are ingrained, and Enjolras doesn't think he's the only one whose heart beats against his ribs and leaves him on edge, jumping and half-panicked at every small sound from the main hallways. If Security finds them like this, in a group and obvious in their sneaking about, there'll be no convenient lies to explain their presence where it shouldn't be. There'll be only detainment, for all four of them. 

When they reach the hallway deep in the void that leads to Grantaire, the first door is already shut before them but the lights are bright and steady. Éponine catches his eye with a grin and gestures him forward, a tip of her head to cede the first hurdle to him. 

He already has his lines of code prepared, the same half-dozen that won him entrance the first time through. This time, though, his code errors out and gets hung up halfway through its run, and Enjolras swears loudly before he catches himself and glances sidelong at the others, chagrined. 

Éponine looks bemused, and maybe a little smug. Combeferre's expression is perfectly neutral, and Bahorel rolls his eyes and says, "You data nerds are the _stupidest_ , I swear to the heavens. Let me through?" 

He backs away and Bahorel comes in, gripping the edge of the door. He strains a little and the doors gape open a crack, sliding slowly but steadily. When he catches Enjolras watching, he flashes them a smug look and a wink. "Sometimes the simple solutions are all you need." 

Enjolras frowns and presses a hand to the smooth steel door as it gives way to Bahorel's strength. "It wasn't locked?" 

Bahorel grins and wedges his shoulder inside the gap, now that it's big enough to fit him, so he can brace his back against the door to push. "I'm flattered you hold my strength in _that_ high esteem. No, it's not locked, just shut. The pneumatics aren't working." 

"Aren't activated," Enjolras says quietly, because they worked just fine the last time he was here. 

Last time, Grantaire tried to lock him out. This time, he seems only to want to make the way more difficult. His warning isn't flashing on the console screen, either, just a flat blank white now that it's recovered from Enjolras's unnecessary code. 

In another moment, Bahorel has the gap wide enough for all four of them to slip through. When, halfway down the hall, they encounter the second door, also shut, Bahorel groans and gives Enjolras a look like this is all his fault. 

"I don't think he's trying to keep _us_ out," Enjolras says. "He wouldn't have sent the blueprints, if he wanted to keep us away. He was much more emphatic about it, last time. I don't think this is for _us._ " 

"Security?" Combeferre asks quietly. "You think he's trying to keep them out? If he hadn't before, then why now? Unless they know you've been here--" 

"I don't think it's that." Enjolras rubs a hand across the nape of his neck as Bahorel starts to work on the second set of doors. "He told me not to get caught for his sake. I think if they knew I'd been here, if they were prepared for me to return, he'd be trying harder to keep me away." 

"This is going _easy_ on us?" Bahorel demands, incredulous, as he strains to pull at the door's weight. 

"Last time, he used the pneumatics." Enjolras goes over to the console and plugs his datascreen in. He doesn't autorun his code, though, not like last time. The console screen is the same flat white as the first, and Enjolras's datascreen chirps a cheerful alert that the connection between the two has been established. 

His fingers hesitate over the screen. _Hello,_ he types after a moment. Not even code this time, just plain text. _I told you I'd bring help._

The console's screen flashes red just for a moment, just long enough to make Enjolras's heart lodge in his throat. Then it fades back to reassuring white, but text scrolls across the screen, an infinite loop of _who who who who who who who._

_My friends,_ Enjolras answers. _They're here to help. We all are._

_They can't_ flashes up, the letters big and bold across the console, filling up all the whitespace. 

Enjolras's mouth presses thin. His fingers fly across the keyboard. _At least let us try._

Grantaire answers with _Danger, danger, danger_ scrolling across the console screen, but it's not so insistent as the first time, still black text on white background rather than the bright red of before. It feels more like a reminder, this time, rather than a warning. 

_I know,_ Enjolras types back. _We'll shut our eyes. I promise._

There is a long wait while nothing happens. Enjolras doesn't receive a response, and Bahorel and the other two continue to strain to force the doors open through sheer brute strength. Then, abruptly, the loud, metallic clang of locks releasing makes all four of them jump, and the doors slide open easily, with just the pressure of a touch. 

Inside, the lights are just as blinding as the before. They all throw their hands up automatically to shield themselves from the glare, all but Combeferre, who couldn't tell the difference either way. 

" _No,_ " Grantaire says, his voice harsh and desperate, and the lights grow so bright that Enjolras can feel them searing against his eyelids. "You promised. _Shut your eyes_. I won't have anyone dying over me." 

"Look at me," Combeferre says, his voice pitched low and soothing. Enjolras can't see him, not with his eyes watering at the blinding light, but Enjolras can sense him moving away, moving forward. "I'll close my eyes if it'll reassure you, but take a good look at me and you'll see there's no point. I can't see you, either way." 

Enjolras can hear the harshness of Grantaire's breathing, can picture well enough the way he's braced for flight, as though he's forgotten he's tethered in place. "You're blind?" There's so much hope in his voice that it's painful. "You can't-- You can't see me?" 

"Not as such." There's warmth in Combeferre's voice. He sounds like he's smiling. "Look-- do you see?" And with that, Enjolras can imagine that Combeferre is sweeping his dreadlocks back from his ear, showing Grantaire his echo transmitter. "I can get around. But it's not sight, not really." 

"It might be close enough." Grantaire sounds miserable. 

"I don't think it is." Combeferre is so confident, so serene. He was such a good choice to bring here, to help deal with skittish, terrified Grantaire. "I can see you right now, the shape of you, or as close to sight as I ever get. And I'm not dead or mad yet. I don't think I shall be." 

There's a ragged, unsteady breath that must be Grantaire's. "Close your eyes," he says, strained. "Please. I don't know the limits of it. I don't want to risk it." 

"Of course. All right," Combeferre says, and he must have complied because the intensity of the lights eases off just a bit. 

"Grantaire." Enjolras starts toward him, hands stretched out to feel his way. And for all that his eyes are shut, Combeferre must have left his echo transmitter working, because he catches Enjolras's hand and helps guide him forward to stand at his side. When he drops Enjolras's hand there are more, shuffling steps, and Éponine's shoulder brushes his as she, too, is guided forward to join them. The other steps coming from farther past Combeferre must be Bahorel, coming up onto his other side until they're all four standing together, not as neatly arrayed as they'd have done if they were able to see, but presenting a face of solidarity all the same. 

"Grantaire," Enjolras says again. "We're here to help you. Please, let us." 

"You can't." Grantaire's voice is harsh, as sharp as a whip. "I told you before, you can't." 

"Because you're tethered? There are ways--" 

"Because I'm _dangerous!_ " The lights go bright and hot again, though Enjolras made no move to open his eyes, and he's certain none of the others did as well. But Grantaire seems to like them to punctuate his moods, all the same. 

Enjolras takes a cautious step forward. "You told me you've been like this forever. But that's not true, is it? You're a man." He doesn't say _just_ a man this time, he's learned his lesson. "Maybe something else besides, but you're still a man, as well. You have a body. You were born. Do you remember it?" 

"Being born?" Grantaire's voice twists with wry humor. "Do you?" 

" _Living._ " 

"I can't." 

"Can't remember?" 

"I _can't!_ " The lights go so bright they start to hiss and pop, the heat of them like a physical wall driving them back. 

"Okay. Okay." That's Éponine coming up beside him, advancing rather than retreating. Her hand gropes out until it lands on Enjolras's arm, and then she grabs on to him tight as though she fears to lose him. "You can't remember. That's all right. But you're the ship, right? You're the computer. So don't try to remember. Try to access that information. Surely they've got records about what happened to you, how you became like this. _When_ you became like this." 

"Nothing happened to me." Grantaire sounds harsh and violent again. "I chose this." 

"Do you choose it now?" That's Combeferre now, coming forward to join the two of them. He's more graceful about it than either of them were, more serene. "Do you _want_ to be like this, tethered to machines, alone, unable even to be looked at without harming those around you? Is that what you want, Grantaire? If it is, we'll leave you alone, we'll leave you to it." He pauses, dramatic, and lets the weight of his words sink in for a moment. "But if it's not, we can help." 

"You can't," Grantaire says, but this time he sounds sad, sounds defeated, not defiant. 

"Watch us," Bahorel says, smug and confident. 

"You sent me those blueprints," Enjolras says. "You gave them to me when you didn't have to. Why else would you do that, unless because you wanted me to come back and fulfill my promise?" 

"I didn't think you would," Grantaire says with a choked, bitter laugh. 

"Then why?" 

"You needed them." 

Éponine takes a swift breath, and Enjolras is reminded that Grantaire is the ship, is connected to all of it. He sent Enjolras the blueprints they needed because he knew what they had, and what they lacked. It's a notion that makes the hair on the back of Enjolras's nape stand on end. 

"You did something kind for us," Éponine says. "Let us do the same for you. Let us _try_ , at least." 

"How do you expect to be able to do anything when you can't see?" 

"Let us figure that out," Éponine says. Enjolras can tell by her tone the way she's smiling, the corners of her mouth just turned up, clever and determined. He hopes Grantaire can see it. Éponine's never let a roadblock stand in her way before, and he doesn't expect she intends to now. 

Grantaire is quiet for a long moment. "Don't look," he says, and his voice is shaking, like it costs him something to relent even this much. Or like he's very, very afraid. 

"I promise," Éponine says, and Enjolras echoes her. Combeferre and Bahorel follow suit, a moment behind. 

Grantaire sighs and the lights ease, still bright enough to blind but at least now the prickling wave of heat they cast off retreats, and they can all come forward. 

"Combeferre," Éponine says. "You're the only one of us who can see a thing at all. Help us out? What do you see?" 

"There are wires buried into his scalp, connecting him to the mainframe behind." Combeferre's voice moves as he circles around Grantaire, taking him in. "Are those electrical, Grantaire?" 

He clears his throat before he answers. "Some of them." 

"Are they pulling power from you, or delivering it to you?" 

"I make my own energy. That's kind of the point, isn't it?" 

Combeferre's voice goes warm with a smile. "Pulling from, then. And the others? The ones that aren't electrical?" 

"They're for data." 

" _Data?_ " Éponine sounds horrified, and grips Enjolras's arm like she needs a tether to reality. "We've got a wireless signal broadcast throughout the whole ship, but you're _wired_ in to it? What the hell kind of backwards engineering--" 

"I'm older than the wireless," Grantaire says, at the same time that Enjolras says, "There's no broadband signal down here. The whole void is a black zone." 

"Stars above." Now she sounds disgusted, scornful, rather than horrorstruck. 

"Do you see?" Grantaire demands. "I can't be freed. If you sever those wires, you'll leave the ship paralyzed, just a hunk of metal floating through space until some planet's gravitational field catches us and pulls us all down to our deaths." 

"There are ways around that, I'm sure," Combeferre says easily, and does something that makes Grantaire make a sharp, unhappy sound. Touches him, maybe. Enjolras rubs at his aching eyes and wonders why Grantaire killed the lights when Enjolras touched him, but not for Combeferre. "What is this?" Combeferre asks quietly, his voice pitched so that Enjolras is sure he's asking Grantaire, and not one of them. 

Grantaire makes that same low, distressed sound again. "Nutrient conduit," he says, his voice strangled. "Please don't--" 

"It's a _feeding tube?_ " Now, Éponine's furious. "They're not even bothering to feed you properly?" 

"Of course they are, I told you. I receive perfectly adequate nutrition--" 

"Oh heavens, that's not feeding you. That's keeping you alive, maybe, but it's barbaric." 

Enjolras touches her shoulder, a silent request, because Grantaire only seems to be growing more upset by her insistence, and that's not what they need. An upset Grantaire is a Grantaire who's likely to amp the lights high again, and force them back through the sheer force of the blistering heat. "We can figure that out, too." 

"That's more Combeferre's field of expertise than mine. Or Joly's, if we can get him down here without leaving him vulnerable to Security. I like hardware, not software." 

Combeferre's smiling again, his voice warm and fond. "Lucky for us, I excel at software. And yes, we can find a solution to that, I imagine. Joly and I may have to put our heads together for this one, but we can figure it out. We can figure it all out," he adds, a different quality to his voice, and Enjolras realizes when Grantaire sighs that Combeferre was addressing that last comment to him, a firm reassurance. "We're smart. We're resourceful." 

"I know you are." 

"We can do this, if you want us to." 

They all wait, then. Enjolras isn't sure about the others, but he hardly dares to breathe while they wait for Grantaire's response, for his verdict. 

"Security will kill you if they find you." 

All at once, Enjolras can breathe again. There may have been as much resignation in those words as there was acceptance, but it's acceptance all the same. 

"Detain us, maybe," Bahorel says, and Enjolras's eyes are adjusting to the light enough that he can make out the shape of him, the way he shrugs a shoulder, unconcerned. "We've dealt with that before." 

"Not detain," Grantaire insists. " _Kill._ They'll override my commands and turn the lights down so you can see me and they will make me kill you." 

There's a beat of silence for that, all of them shifting, Enjolras thinks glancing at one another. "Well," Bahorel says at last. "That just makes it all the more exciting, then, doesn't it?" 

"You are madmen," Grantaire says quietly, sadly. "They didn't put _that_ in any of your files." 

Éponine laughs like she's delighted. "Didn't they? That seems an oversight." Enjolras can see the shape of her, too. Watches her move forward and lay a hand on Grantaire's shoulder. Enjolras braces for Grantaire to kill the lights and throw them all into solid darkness like he did last time when Enjolras touched him, but this time Grantaire starts and makes a sharp, alarmed sound, but the lights stay on. 

Enjolras isn't sure if that's a sign of progress or not. 

'If we weren't madmen," Éponine says, quieter, "you'd still be here, alone, forgotten. You don't want that, do you?" 

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Grantaire snarls. 

Éponine's head tips to the side. "That wasn't the question." 

There's a long silence. "No," Grantaire says at last, with no inflection at all. "I'm tired of being alone." 

"Right, then." Éponine is all brisk business again. "Then you're going to have to figure out some way to let Combeferre and I inspect the wiring and conduits, so we can figure out how to sever them without risking you, or everyone else on board the ship." 

"You _can't_. I told you-- No. I told him." Grantaire's head swivels around until Enjolras thinks he's looking straight at him. " _Tell her._ What I told you. About men going mad, dying." 

Enjolras knows what Grantaire wants him to say, of course. Instead, Enjolras says, "I saw you, Grantaire." 

Grantaire jolts as though he's been struck a blow. 

"Last time. In the reflection." Enjolras tips his head to indicate the metal sheeting lining the room's doors. "Not clearly, but it wasn't this. It wasn't shadows. And I'm not dead, or mad." 

"That's questionable," Bahorel drawls, laughter in his voice. 

"You can't." Grantaire's voice is suddenly desperate, broken. All the strength from earlier gone. "You _can't_." 

"I did." He comes forward like Éponine did, touches him like she did, too. A hand on Grantaire's elbow, smooth, warm skin beneath his fingers, and the lights flicker wildly. A few of them pop and hiss and then die, and don't come back on again. " _Listen_ to me, Grantaire. The point is, there are limits to your..." He wants to say _curse_ , but resists. "--to your effect. If we can figure out what those limits are, then we can find a way to let Éponine and Combeferre examine you safely." 

"And if you push the limits too far, trying to figure out where they end? You'll _die_. No. I won't have anyone die for me. I'm supposed to _protect_ you." 

"Enjolras is right," Combeferre says. He's somewhere on Grantaire's other side, a fainter shadow in the unsteady light. "It's not true sight, per se, but I can see you." He taps his transmitter at his temple. "Better than anyone else in this room, I imagine. And I'm not dead, or mad." 

"Aren't you?" Grantaire's laughter is wild. "You'll all throw your lives away, and for what?" 

"For you," Bahorel says quietly. "You're the ship, yeah? You're our home. The only one we're likely to ever know. Of course we want to help you. Who wouldn't?" 

Grantaire sighs. "Just about anyone else." 

"Please." Enjolras grips his arm tighter. "Please, let Éponine and Combeferre examine you. Let us figure this out." 

"No." Grantaire's voice is suddenly strong again, unyielding this time. The lights flare bright again, all of them but for the ones he burnt out, driving all four of them back with the wave of heat that comes off of them. Enjolras doesn't know how Grantaire can bear to stand in the middle of it. "No. I'm tired. Go away. Leave me alone!" 

"Grantaire--" Éponine starts, but Enjolras reaches out and grabs her, catches her by the shoulder, he thinks. 

"We'll go," he says, and ignores the way she spins under his hand, turning towards him, no doubt giving him an incredulous look. "But we'll be back. We're going to figure this out, Grantaire." 

" _Go!_ " 

They go, all four of them retreating, sliding back out through the gap in the doors. As soon as they're out, the doors slam shut behind them, the hiss of pneumatics locking them shut. 

Enjolras slumps back against them, taking a moment to rub at his eyes and wait for them to adjust from the blinding lights inside Grantaire's room to the ones in the hallway that seem practically dim by comparison. As his vision comes back, he sees the others around him doing much the same thing. 

"We're not giving up," Éponine says, her jaw clenched tight. It's not a question. "We're not going to leave him like that." 

"No." Enjolras sighs. The encounter, and the whole day before it, has left him exhausted. He wants nothing but to return to their barracks and climb into his bunk and sleep for days. "We're not. But we'll plan, in the meantime, and we'll come back better prepared. Combeferre, you're the only one of us who saw him. Do you think you saw enough to begin to figure out what will be needed to disconnect him?" 

"From the software side, perhaps." He's the only one of them not scrubbing at his eyes and blinking owlishly in the hallway's light. "I'll take the next few days to sit down with Éponine and explain what I saw, and perhaps between the two of us we can piece together enough to start figuring out the hardware, as well." 

Enjolras nods. "Good." At his hip, Feuilly's beacon buzzes a warning. They've used nearly the whole of their two hours, and it's hard not to feel like they've got nothing to show for it. Enjolras touches it to activate the one hour delay, though it'll take them far less than that to get back to the barracks. He wouldn't want the others to worry. 

"Let's head back," he says, and sees reluctant nods all around. "We'll tell the others what we've seen, and we'll all put our heads together. Between the lot of us, we'll figure this out. We will," he adds, emphatic, and is gratified by the way it pulls the others' backs straight, gives them a renewed spark of fire in their eyes. 

Together, they retrace their steps through the side corridors and unused rooms, through the void and back out into the common areas of the ship. A shift is just letting out, the halls full of people and noise. The four of them fit the part, looking as weary and disheartened as anyone who's put in a full shift, and they attract no notice as they make their way back home.


	4. Chapter 4

Éponine storms into the barracks, throwing the door open hard enough it ricochets off the wall. Her face is a stormcloud, dark and foreboding. "I had shift with Azelma today," she snarls, dropping down onto the end of Enjolras's bunk. 

Enjolras sets his datascreen down and gives her his full attention. "Did you?" he inquires politely, though it's obvious this isn't smalltalk. Éponine has a point, and it's easier to let her get to it than to try to steer the conversation and hope he doesn't miss the mark. "How is she?" Éponine and Azelma were raised in the same children's ward, same with Cosette, though Enjolras is given to understand that Éponine always got on better with the former than the latter. They don't often get scheduled to work shifts together, but usually Éponine comes home pleased for the opportunity to reacquaint, when they do. 

"Scared as a mouse, the poor thing. She could scarcely even manage to look at me all morning. I finally caught her for a few minutes at our lunch break." 

"Scared?" That gets Enjolras's gaze focused square on her. He leans forward to catch Éponine's hand and hold it between his. Whatever upset her foster-sister, it's clearly done the same to Éponine as well. "Scared of what?" 

"Of who," Éponine corrects, and rolls her eyes. "Who do you think? Security." 

"Why would she be afraid of them?" 

"Because she heard it from her barrack-mate that we're leaving the planet behind." 

The news drops like a weight into the pit of Enjolras's stomach, leaves him winded and weary. "Is the information reliable? Can she be sure of it?" 

"As sure as she's able without seeing it with her own eyes, it sounds like." Éponine scrubs her hands over her face, then drags them up to pull through her dark hair, leaving it dissheveled. "We're never going to get off this ship. We're never going to find a home." 

She looks so dejected, Enjolras can't bear it. He pulls on the hand he's holding, pulling her up onto her knees and forward so he can wrap her in an embrace. Normally she'll only grudgingly tolerate this much obvious affection, and only for a few moments. Today, she lets her face press against Enjolras's shoulder for a long moment, and her arms wrap around his back and squeeze. 

"We don't know it's habitable," he says quietly, cautiously. And with that, the spell is broken, the moment gone. 

"That's Security bullshit and you know it." She smacks his arm, and doesn't pull her punches. The force of it makes him wince and rub at the muscle. "Why would we have spent so long in orbit around it if it weren't habitable?" 

"Why would we have spent time in orbit at all if they never meant to land us?" 

" _Something's going on,_ Enjolras, I know it is. _You_ know it is, don't tell me you don't. Half the people on this ship know Security's keeping something from us. We can't just not do anything." 

"We aren't. We won't," he adds, when that just earns a scoff from her. "We'll do something." 

"Do _what?_ " 

"I don't know yet." He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, tries to think. "Have you pulled that database recently, to see if there's anything new, now that the ship's on the move?" 

She shakes her head, looking solemn. "With all the gaps in the information in there, I didn't think it'd be likely they'd add any new entries, anyway." 

"Maybe not, but it's worth checking all the same. So we'll do that, make sure we have the most complete version of data that's available. And I'll..." 

She waits, brows raised, until he makes a helpless gesture, unsure how he meant to finish the sentence. "I'll figure something out," he says, and knows it's not enough. 

To his surprise, she only contemplates him for a moment, and then she nods, somehow satisfied. "All right. It's a start." She gets to her feet, stretches out, and drops a hand onto his shoulder as she passes by. "Thanks for letting me go crazy at you for a minute." 

He smiles and squeezes her hand before she can pull it away. And then he's left alone with a plan to make, and he knows what he has to do. But no one at all is going to like it. 

*

He waits until lights-out, when those who aren't at a shift are asleep in their beds, and Enjolras and leave without attracting too many questions about where he's going and why. 

He only hesitates for a moment before he brings the beacon with him. He tucks it into a pocket but leaves it unactivated. If he runs into trouble he can turn it on and activate the emergency alarm then. Otherwise, he doesn't want anyone knowing where he's going. He doesn't want anyone coming after him. 

It's much riskier traveling through the halls during lights-out. There's no one else around to camouflage his passage, and any wandering Security guards will know he's up to something he shouldn't be the moment they see him. He moves quick, stays careful, and scarcely dares to breathe at all until he makes it well into the void, where Security's patrols are much less frequent. 

The doors are shut, as they were last time. But like last time, there's no hydraulics. When Enjolras grips the edge of a door and pulls at it, it gives way slowly. He misses Bahorel's strength as he forces the doors open, but he did this by himself the first time. He can do it again just the same. 

He breathes a little easier when he reaches the second set of doors, the last before Grantaire. He didn't open the first all the way, just wide enough to slip through, and that gives him some shelter here, some protection from Security's guards. He pulls these doors open as well, just enough to open a gap. 

As soon as he does so, Grantaire's voice comes, sharp and insistent as he demands, "Who's there?" 

Enjolras stays where he is, behind the bulk of the doors, out of sight. "It's me, Grantaire," he calls, just loud enough for his voice to carry. 

The lights go bright the moment he speaks, spilling out into the hallway in a brilliant column of light. Enjolras is glad to be behind the doors, glad to be sheltered from it. "Who else?" Grantaire demands, a wild note to his voice. 

"No one else. Just me. It's just me, Grantaire." Enjolras leans his forehead against the cool metal of the door. "Can you turn the lights down? If I stay right here, if I promise, will you trust me?" 

Grantaire is silent for a long moment. "You'll keep your word," he says at last, and it sounds more like an edict than a question. 

"Yes." Enjolras lowers himself to the floor, sitting with his knees bent and his back against the half-open door. "I won't come in. There's no need to blind me." 

Another moment of silence, and then the brightness of the light cutting across the hall floor starts to fade. It's slowly done, by gradual degrees, and Enjolras wonders in the silence if Grantaire is waiting for him to jump around the corner and cry "gotcha". 

Enjolras doesn't move, doesn't make a sound that might be interpretted as moving. He just waits, until the lights inside Grantaire's room are the same brightness as those outside in the hall. 

"Why are you here?" Grantaire demands after a moment. 

"I want to talk to you." Enjolras leans the back of his skull against the cool metal plating, lets his eyes slide shut. "Just to talk." 

"Why?" 

"What do you know about the ship? I mean, _really_ know about it. Not the internals, I'm sure you know everything there is to know about that. But the rest of it. Do you know where we are?" 

Grantaire is quiet again, for too long. "There are records," he says at length. "Charts and logs, with our bearings--" 

Enjolras sits up, leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Éponine found those, too. They're incomplete. There's information missing, information we need in order to know where we are. Where we're going. Do you have the rest of that data?" 

"I don't know." Grantaire sounds distant, lost to the search through his memory banks, no doubt. "There's so much. It's not in any of the logical places." 

That's no surprise to Enjolras. If it were, he and Éponine would have found it already. "What about the less logical places? Are there hidden files we can't see to access? Éponine thinks they'd be stored separately, externally. That they'd keep them off of the wireless, so we couldn't find them and hack our way in. But you're not part of the wireless system, you're wired in. Do you know of anything like that?" 

"I don't know." There's a sound like a thump, or a stomped foot. Enjolras wants desperately to roll over onto one hip and peer through the doorway to make sure Grantaire is okay, to gauge his level of upset. He curls his fingers into the fabric of his pants, stretched across the top of his thighs because of the way he's sitting, and keeps himself still. 

"Can you look? Can you try?" 

"Do you know how much information I hold?" Grantaire snarls, suddenly angry. Angry is better than upset. "Do you know how long it would take to look through all of it?" 

"I haven't any idea," Enjolras admits honestly. 

"Okay. Let's try something different." There's a snag on the knee of Enjolras's pants, a stray thread pulled out of place. He catches it between his fingers and tugs at it. "Forget the logs, what about the sensors? Have they registered any movement in the past few days?" 

"They're always registering movement, we're in orbit--" 

"We're not. Not anymore, or so I've heard from a trusted source." 

Grantaire falls very, very quiet. 

"Are you looking?" 

"Be quiet. Give me a moment." Grantaire's voice lashes out, authoritative. Enjolras falls silent beneath it. He twists the thread between his fingers and waits. 

"There's nothing." Grantaire sounds bewildered. His voice is soft, distant, as though he's forgotten Enjolras is there at all and is speaking to himself. "There's _nothing_ , how can they-- All system readings indicated a high likelihood of compatibility with life. They should be sending probes down, they should be arranging a manned trip, but there's _nothing_..." 

"We're not staying," Enjolras says quietly. Whether the ship is moving out of orbit now doesn't matter, not in the face of such evidence. If Security meant to stay, they'd have done all those things. If they're not leaving the planet behind already, they will be soon. 

_High likelihood of compatibility with life,_ Enjolras thinks, and he wants to laugh, or maybe cry. Maybe both. He curves forward, pressing his forehead against his knees and trying to breathe through it. 

Éponine's going to be crushed. They all will be, truth be told. Everyone in their barracks. Every one the ship. They've all been buzzing with excitement since the first janitorial tech glimpsed the planet through one of Security's windows. And now, now they're just going to leave it behind, sail off into the black toward the next star system, the planet, and maybe their children's children's children will get to see a view out their windows that's something beyond the black of space through the ship's windows. 

Maybe that Security, several generations removed, will be more just. Maybe they'll land. Maybe they'll stay. Maybe the distant descendants of everyone Enjolras knows and loves will finally get to know what it's like to stand on solid ground, without the constant hum of the engines rattling up through their bones. 

"Why would they," Grantaire breathes, lost and uncertain. He sounds small and scared and alone, and Enjolras wants to go to him, but he knows there's no comfort that his presence can offer. "That's what this voyage is for, that's what this _ship_ is _for_ , why would they ever--" 

"They're not looking for a home," Enjolras says, and his voice comes out harsh, broken. "They're looking for something else." 

Grantaire takes a swift, sharp breath. "What?" he demands. 

Enjolras can only shake his head. "Your guess is as good as mine." 

"I don't guess. That's not how I'm made." 

Enjolras shuts his eyes, smiles, lets himself even laugh quietly, just a little. "That's not what I meant." 

"I know. But the point remains." His voice is growing bolder and more sure with every word. Enjolras wishes he could see him like this, vibrant and strong. "I don't guess. I take data and I compute it." 

Enjolras sits upright, folding his legs. "Can you find data about this? Something you could use to compute probabilities or statistics of what it is they might be looking for?" 

"I can try." Grantaire clears his throat. "It will take time. There's hundreds of years of data to sort through. I can process fast, but not that fast." 

"How long?" Enjolras asks. 

There's a beat of silence. "A few days." 

Enjolras lets out a rush of air that carries traces of laughter with it. "That's all? A few days, to sort through generations of data?" He gets to his feet, but stays behind the bulk of the door, so he won't frighten Grantaire. "I'll leave you to it, let you get started." 

Grantaire makes an absent hum like he's distracted, like he's already sifting through the data and crunching the numbers. 

"Thank you, Grantaire." 

He gets only another distracted reply, so he dusts himself off and starts toward the outer set of doors. 

"Enjolras." There's a sudden, commanding note in Grantaire's voice. 

Enjolras stops. He's far enough away from the inner doors that he thinks he could see through the gap if he turned around, so he doesn't. The light cast across the hallway floor is the same brightness as it has been through this whole conversation, the same easy, comfortable brightness as the lights out here. Enjolras could turn on a heel and see Grantaire, but Grantaire hasn't brightened the lights to guard against that. 

Grantaire trusts him. 

Enjolras clears his throat and has to try twice before he's able to get out, "Yes?" 

"You're welcome. And _thank you_." 

Enjolras smiles. "You're welcome." He pulls the outer doors open wider when he gets to them, wide enough that he can pass through without having to squeeze, without having to _turn_ , which would risk the possibility of catching a glimpse of Grantaire from the corners of his vision. Or at least make Grantaire fear the possibility of it. 

He doesn't turn, and Grantaire doesn't raise the level of the lights, not one bit. 

Enjolras walks back to the barracks with a smile fighting to break out across his face the entire way. 

*

Three days later, Enjolras's datascreen beeps an alert at him. 

_1 new message. From:_

_All possibilities of what they might be searching for come up with equal probability. Any differences in the probability are statistically negligible._

Enjolras excuses himself from his conversation with Jehan and retreats back to his bunk. He opens up a reply message, asks, _What does that mean, for someone who_ isn't _the corporeal manifestation of a ship?_

He sends the message, but half a second later, before he's even had a chance to shut the 'screen down, there's a new alert, popping up in warning red: _Message undeliverable. Recipient not found._

Enjolras bites back a curse and scowls down at the device. Before he's able to think up a way to reliable get the message to Grantaire, there's another alert, another message. 

_It means there's no indication what they might be looking for. All I know is that they're_ not _looking for a habitable planet. We've passed within approachable distance of four of them in the past seven generations and no attempts were ever made to send down probes or obtain further data._

_Not that were recorded in any logs I can find, anyway, but why wouldn't they record that?_

Why indeed, Enjolras wonders. This time, he doesn't manage to restain the urge to swear, and several of his nearer friends glance up at him from what they're doing. 

One of those is Éponine, and she takes one look at his face and comes over to drop onto his bunk. "What is it?" 

There's no keeping it from her. He hands the datascreen over and leads her read the messages for herself. 

She reads silently, her eyes flicking across the screen. He can tell when she gets to the important bit, because her mouth goes flat and her eyes go livid. "I knew it. I _knew_ it. We're never going to land. We're going to drift forever and--" She breaks off, presses the heels of her hands against her eyes. "Those Security _bastards_." 

Before Enjolras can think of how to reply, how to soothe when the news is this terrible, his datascreen chimes again. He takes it from Éponine's lap and turns it around so he can read the new message. 

_There's a mechanic amongst your group, isn't there? The rosters list one. Do you trust him? Bring him the next time you come._

Enjolras replies, _I trust everyone in this barracks implicitly. We've worked hard to get a good, likeminded, trustworthy group together. I'll bring him. Why?_

He dismisses the alert that warns him once again that his message is undeliverable and waits for Grantaire's reply. 

_We're going to need him._

_Need him for what?_ Enjolras insists, because Feuilly believes in being well-prepared, and if Enjolras doesn't ask what sort of job he ought to be preparing for, Feuilly will do it himself. 

_BRING HIM._

*

Grantaire said _the next time you come_ like he just expected Enjolras to bring Feuilly along whenever he happened to decide to return for a visit, but Enjolras takes it as an invitation, and starts planning another excursion. Two days later, when everyone in their little group has managed to secure a shift off at the same time, they start out. 

It's Feuilly this time, of course, and Musichetta and Bossuet, because Enjolras figures if they're going to be working with Grantaire then it's only right that everyone gets a chance to be introduced to him eventually. Bossuet protested that the last thing their group needed was his poor luck, but the rest of them ignored his protests and promised to be extra careful to make up for it. 

It's almost getting routine by now, slipping through the halls out of Security's sight. The others who haven't made the trip yet look nervous, but they reach the corridor, and the outer set of doors, without mishap. Enjolras hooks connects his datascreen to the console's diagnostics port and types to Grantaire: _I brought Feuilly. Let us in?_

The pneumatics release with a hiss, and to Enjolras's surprise, as soon as he's disconnected from the console the doors slide open with the quiet whir of machinery. Enjolras watches wryly as they disappear into the walls. "You couldn't have done that the last two times we came?" he asks of the air, then shakes his head and proceeds to the inner doors. 

"Shut your eyes," he tells the others, though they've all heard everyone's stories repeatedly by now, and they know. "No peeking. He'll get upset if you try to push the limits." 

Everyone closes their eyes obediently. Enjolras leaves his open just long enough to send another message through the second console: _We're here. We've all shut our eyes, so we're safe. Will you open the doors?_ Then he disconnects and shuts his as well. 

The quiet hum of the doors sliding open makes Enjolras smile. He reaches out to grab the hands of the others beside him and they walk forward together, careful with their steps as they cross the distance blind. 

"Which one?" Grantaire asks when they get near. 

Feuilly clears his throat and drops Enjolras's hand to step forward. "I'm Feuilly," he says. "The mechanic you asked for. And you're Grantaire?" 

"Yes." 

"It's very nice to meet you." 

Grantaire seems nonplussed. The silence is strained for a moment, until Feuilly breaks it. 

"You must have asked for me in particular for a reason. What did you have in mind?" 

Grantaire takes a deep breath. "My programming is to protect the ship, and everyone who lives on it. To preserve life and health. To get everyone to a new home safely." 

Feuilly makes a sound that Enjolras knows well, a thoughtful sound that means _I'm listening, go on._

"Security isn't leading us to a new home. I don't know what their aim is"--and his voice goes sharp and frustrated at that, like he can't bear the idea of not having whatever knowledge he wishes at his fingertips--"but that much I do believe. They're not finding us a home. They're not doing what they're supposed to, what their _purpose_ is." 

"You want to do something about it?" Feuilly asks quietly. 

" _Yes._ " The ferocity of his response seems to knock the wind from Grantaire. It leaves him breathing hard for a few moments before he collects himself. "But I can't do that while I'm tethered here." 

Enjolras sucks in a swift breath, then holds carefully, perfectly still and silent, afraid to move or even breathe for fear of doing something that will make Grantaire change his mind. 

"From what I understand," Feuilly says, "from what I've heard about your setup here, you'd be better off with Éponine or Combeferre or Joly than you would with me, for purposes of disconnecting you." 

"You're not here to disconnect me. You're here to make it safe." 

It takes a moment, and then Feuilly seems to understand. "The effect," he says quietly. "You think I can make something that will counteract it?" 

"I have an idea," Grantaire says. 

*

"A projection," Feuilly murmurs thoughtfully, when Grantaire has finished explaining his idea. They're all sitting in a cluster before Grantaire like children at storytime, though they've all still got their eyes squeezed shut. "To give you an altered appearance. I could do that, I think. You think it will do the trick?" 

Grantaire is quiet a moment. "I don't know." He sounds torn up about that, and Enjolras can hardly blame him. The only way to test it is to risk hurting or killing someone. 

One of _them_. 

"I don't know. But Combeferre's seen me with his echolocation and hasn't been harmed. Enjolras has seen my distorted reflection and he seems well." His voice twists on the last sentence, going a little rough with displeasure at Enjolras's willingness to push the boundaries and put himself at risk. "If they haven't been affected because the haven't seen me, not truly, not clearly, then it seems logical that an altered appearance would have much the same effect." 

"Well, I can rig something up and we can give it a shot, certainly. You have my system ID?" Grantaire makes an affirmative sound. "All right, send me the parameters for the design, and I'll get to work. And send me a file of what you want the projection to look like, too. Unless you'd rather I choose?" 

Grantaire makes a sound that might possibly be amusement. "No. I'll send you something." 

"Good," Feuilly says, and Enjolras can hear the grin in his voice. "I can't wait." 

*

"Do you want to see?" Feuilly asks him out of the blue some days later. 

Enjolras startles, and then stares at him. His first thought is the device he's been working on ever since leaving Grantaire, but he has nothing in his hands but his datascreen. "See what?" 

Feuilly's smile is a little soft, a little indulgent. "He sent the image. Do you want to see him?" 

Enjolras's breath catches. He's saying, " _Yes_ ," before he has a chance to think about it, moving towards Feuilly before he's even registered the decision to do so. 

Feuilly hands him the datascreen, when he's near enough to do so. Enjolras takes it, turns it around, stares down at it. 

There's a man staring back at him, and Enjolras takes in the most obvious details in a glance -- brown skin, closer to Courfeyrac's shade, not so brown as Combeferre's, much less Musichetta's; hair let out long enough to curl; eyes as dark and deep as shadows. The subtler details come slower, take more time to notice. The way the set of his mouth isn't quite solemn, the edges curved up just a hint. The light in his eyes that could be mischief, Enjolras thinks, if he were given the chance. The curls of wire through his hair, the royal blue of them a subtle contrast against the brown curls. The swirls and tracks across his skin, of what Enjolras would call tattoos if this were a photograph of anyone else. But it's Grantaire, so he's fairly certain that the lines of gold on umber skin that look so much like circuitry crawling up his throat probably _are_ circuitry. 

Enjolras doesn't mean to sit, but he feels the solid impact of someone's bunk beneath his thighs all the same. "Stars above," he breathes. 

"What is it?" Feuilly asks, hovering beside him. 

Enjolras shakes his head. "I don't know. I just didn't think... I don't know what I expected. Not this." 

"You expected him to look more human?" It's asked quietly, gently. 

Enjolras lets out a heavy breath. "He _is_ human." But the image makes him look like he's more, too. 

"It's what he wants you to see him as." 

Enjolras nods. He knows Grantaire thinks the distinction is important, knows he doesn't like it when Enjolras says or implies that he's human without acknowledging the complexity of his situation. If Grantaire wants to remind Enjolras that he's as much machine as he is man, then he's chosen his image well. 

Enjolras hands the datascreen back to Feuilly. "Thank you for showing me." He's glad to have had the opportunity for a preview. He's glad not to be caught staring at Grantaire himself, when the projection is revealed. 

"It's the last piece I've been waiting for, for the device. I'll do some final run-throughs once the image is implemented, make sure everything's working as it should, and then I'll let him know that it's ready to be tested." 

*

Enjolras only knows that Feuilly has finished his final checks and declared the device ready for testing because every single one of them receive the same message from Grantaire. It says, _One of you can come. No more. I won't risk anyone else._

Everyone who's in the barracks and not working reads it at more or less the same time, and they all exchange glances when they've finished. 

"It's me," Enjolras says into that silence, quiet but without leaving any room for protest. "It has to be me." 

"I don't see why it does." That's Courfeyrac, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. "We need you, Enjolras. We need you alive." 

"We need everyone alive. Do you think you're more expendable than I am?" The expression on Courfeyrac's face suggests that Enjolras isn't going to like his answer, so he keeps going, keeps talking. "And I'm the one who dragged us all into this. If anyone's going to die for it, it'll be me." 

"You all have such faith in me," Feuilly comments, dry, but there's no real heat behind it. He smiles at both of them, at all of them. "He knows Enjolras better than any of the rest of us. He'll be more comfortable with him. It's not a bad suggestion." 

Courfeyrac drops his protest, though he continues to look rebellious. Feuilly gives them a moment, enough time for anyone else to voice a protest, if they have one. When none come, he nods like it's decided and gestures Enjolras over. "Come here, I'll show you how to work it." 

*

Enjolras isn't sure what he expects. A little more pomp and circumstance, maybe. A little ceremony, perhaps, to acknowledge the weight of what they're doing. It feels momentous. 

But Grantaire has little patience for any hints of such, so all it ends up being is Enjolras fastening the device around Grantaire's neck, struggling to work the clasp blind. Feuilly fashioned the device to look like a decorative pendant, unobtrusive. Enjolras lays his finger over the switch that will activate the projection. "Are you ready?" he asks Grantaire quietly. 

Grantaire nods. Enjolras can feel it. His chin brushes against the back of Enjolras's hand as he does so. Enjolras presses the switch. 

There's no indication that anything's changed, just the quiet click of the switch. Enjolras waits, hardly daring to breathe. Grantaire is quiet a moment, too, until he clears his throat. "I'm going to turn the lights up before you open your eyes. Don't look until I say." 

"I won't." 

The light shining through Enjolras's eyelids grows brighter, until it's painful even with his eyes shut. When Grantaire says, "Now," Enjolras opens his eyes. 

It's just as it has always been before, the lights blinding-bright, Grantaire little more than an indistinct shadow against them. "I'll lower them slowly," he says. "If you feel anything strange, anything at all abnormal, you tell me immediately. Maybe, if it didn't work, if I do it slow, we can stop before you see me well enough for it to kill you." 

"I promise," Enjolras says. "I'll tell you, if there's anything to tell about." 

The shadow that is Grantaire shifts. Enjolras thinks it's a nod. And just like that, the lights start to dim. 

Grantaire comes clear by slow degrees, his profile first, and then the details filling in by slow degrees. He looks just like the image Feuilly showed him, but it's entirely different like this, in three dimensions and with the small, slight movements to give it life. His brow is creased and his eyes look worried as the lights settle into a normal brightness. 

Enjolras is beaming and he cannot help it. He doesn't feel mad or ill, he doesn't feel like he's going to die at the sight of him. He just feels a sense of giddiness. "Hi," he says. 

The worry eases slowly away from Grantaire's face, leaves it brilliant with excitement and overwhelming relief. "Hi," he answers, soft, smiling. 

Enjolras doesn't hear the quiet whir of the door's mechanism behind him, he's too busy being preoccupied by the way the light falls across Grantaire's face and how his muscles shift beneath his skin. But neither of them can miss the bright, clear voice behind them that says, "Well, this explains a lot."


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras whirls around. There's a woman in the doorway, black hair pulled up into a severe bun, wearing a uniform that can mean only one thing. _Security._

Before he can do anything, Grantaire grabs him by the arm and hauls him back, putting himself in front of Enjolras. He stares at the woman, but his words are pitched toward Enjolras. "You know what to do." 

Enjolras has a wild moment to think that no, he has absolutely no idea what to do. But then he sees how Grantaire is gripping Feuilly's pendant, how his finger is pressed tight to the catch that will turn on the projection -- or turn it off. And he knows what Grantaire wants of him. It's what he's always asked Enjolras to do. 

He squeezes his eyes shut tight. But even as he does, he reaches out with a hand and grips Grantaire's shoulder. "Don't," he says, hoarse. "You don't want to be a monster. You don't want to hurt people. Don't do this for me." 

"Are you doing it?" Grantaire's voice is unyielding. He stands strong as a statue before Enjolras. 

"Yes." 

The switch clicks as Grantaire presses it, and everything goes very still and very quiet. All Enjolras can hear is the sound of his own breathing, and Grantaire's, and the pounding beat of his pulse in his ears. He strains, listening for the sound of the Security woman going mad, or dropping dead, but there's nothing, just a beat of panicked silence. 

"That's a neat trick," she says, and Grantaire makes a low, wounded sound. Her shoes strike on the floor, announcing her as she comes forward, comes near. They're harder-soled than the soft, quiet shoes they've all worn to sneak through the halls unnoticed. She's Security, she has that luxury. "That doesn't work on me, though, I'm afraid." 

"Don't touch him," Grantaire snarls. Enjolras tightens his fingers on his arm. 

She heaves a great sigh, like this conversation is straining the limits of her patience already. "I'm not here for _him_." 

"Turn it back on," Enjolras says, low and quiet against Grantaire's ear. Grantaire makes a sharp sound of protest, but Enjolras says it again. "It's not helping. Turn it back on, so I can see." 

He hears the device click again. He waits a moment, unsure if the device requires time to get the projection in place, unwilling to risk it. And then he opens his eyes. 

The woman has come forward, come past them. She stands a few strides away, head tipped to the side, looking them both over like they're oddities. 

"You're here for me?" Grantaire asks, and shrinks back. Enjolras can feel him retreating away behind him. "Don't touch me." All the fierce strength in his voice is gone. He sounds small, childlike, frightened. 

Enjolras would die before he'd let her get past him to Grantaire. 

She sighs again and rolls her eyes up. "I'm here for the lights, actually." She gestures to the bank of them against the far wall, and the few blackened bulbs that Grantaire burnt out the last time he had a fit of temper. "Though, like I said, this does explain rather a lot. We've been noticing the endocrine readings fluctuating wildly the past few weeks. Norepinephrine off the charts for no reason we could detect, serotonin spiking only to plummet, oxytocin... There's been some debate as to what it all means, and whether it's an indication that the procedure's failing, after all these years." 

"You've been monitoring him?" Enjolras can hardly speak past the bile trying to push its way up through his throat. 

"Of _course_ we have. We always have." She sends Enjolras a pitying look over her shoulder as she moves across the room to the wall of lights and starts pulling out the dead ones. "He's what keeps us all alive out here. Of course we want to be sure he's doing well, and get ahead of any issues before they cause bigger problems for the ship at large." 

"You _chained him up down here_ ," Enjolras snarls. 

"I didn't.Even if I _had_ been alive back then, which I wasn't--" She gestures with one of the blackened bulbs. "You don't think they'd send a high-level tech to change lightbulbs, do you?" She has a bag at her hip, and she drops the old bulbs in before pulling out a handful of bright, clean new ones. She turns her back to both of them as she lifts up onto her toes, straining to reach high enough to screw the first replacement bulb in. "Anyway, he chained himself up." 

Enjolras's lip curls. If he cared less about keeping himself between this woman and Grantaire, if he were less moved by the way Grantaire was cowering in a way Enjolras had never seen before, he'd have been tempted to stride up to the woman and strike her. "You can't possibly know that. You weren't alive then, as you said. Just _look_ at him and tell me he isn't a prisoner." 

She turns, the last two bulbs still in her hands. Her mouth presses into a thin, impatient line. "I can know it, actually. There are records, interviews, psych evals. We all watch them, as part of our training. He volunteered himself for this, and we did our damnedest to make sure that he was fit enough and stable enough to endure it." 

"Why aren't you dead?" Grantaire asks, his voice broken and small. 

She gives him a softer, pitying look past Enjolras's shoulder. "That doesn't work on us." 

" _Why?_ " 

She sighs once more, a sharp exhale through her nose, and moves to replace the last two bulbs. These two are lower, and easier for her to reach. "Look. I have to get back and report in or they'll send someone down to look for me, and you really don't want that. Will you let me finish, please?" She doesn't wait for an answer, just takes it for granted, and when the last of the bulbs are replaced she turns back to them and crosses her arms over her chest. "I have to go. And _you_ need to be more careful, both of you. If your hormone levels keep fluctuating like this, they're going to send someone down to investigate that, and I don't think you'll like them half so well as me. There are those higher-up I've heard speculating that the solution to the instability is a steady dose of tranq to keep you--him--calm." 

"Like _hell_ ," Enjolras snarls, and starts for her. 

She lifts up one hand to hold him off. "They're still debating that one. So stop giving them a reason for it, hmm? If his levels go back to normal, there'll be no need for it." 

It takes Enjolras longer than it should to realize what she's saying. What she's _not_ saying. He stares at her, braced, suspicious. "You're not going to detain me?" 

Her lips quirk, a small hint of a smile. "That's not really my department." 

"You're not going to report me?" 

"No." 

He loses all his air in a rush. " _Why?_ " 

Her mouth goes thin and flat for a moment, and her gaze slides sideways to stare off into the distance. Then it slides again, to land and focus on Grantaire. She steps past Enjolras, toward him. "We've met before, you know," she says quietly. 

Grantaire stares at her. He doesn't shrink away any further, but Enjolras can see the way he's trembling. "No, we haven't." 

"We have. I've been down here a few times, to service the lights or faulty wiring. Little things that there's no point bothering the higher-ups over. You don't remember, of course. They clear those from your files afterwards so you won't-- Well. The point is, I've seen your interviews and your evals, before the procedure. I always thought you had a really nice smile." She crosses her arms over her chest, pulls her shoulders up tight. "I've never seen you smile when I've been down here, not once." She turns her head just a little, just enough to glance at Enjolras. "Not until today." She gives Enjolras a tight, uncertain little smile of her own. "It's nicer in person." 

Enjolras stares at her, non-plussed. "You're letting me go because I made him smile?" 

She draws back, shakes the tension out of her shoulders until she's standing up tall and brisk, looking every inch the Security officer once more. "I'm letting you go because I really don't have the time to deal with all the paperwork this is going to bury me with, if I report you. So be careful, and don't make me regret it, do you understand?" 

Enjolras nods once, jerky. Grantaire must do the same because she looks between the two of them for a moment, then spins on her heel and stalks out. The doors whisk open for her, and then quietly shut behind, an easier passage than Enjolras has ever had. 

When she's gone, both sets of doors shut behind her with the hiss of pneumatics, Grantaire slumps like an Old World marionette with half its strings cut. "Oh, stars," he breathes. 

Enjolras goes to him, is at his side in an instant to lift him up and support his weight. "Are you all right?" 

"They know. They know you're here, that you've been coming. You have to stop." 

"Don't be mad, of course we're not going to stop. _Grantaire._ You're missing the important part." 

Grantaire looks up at him through the curls of hair and wire falling in his face. "More important than you being detained or killed?" 

"It worked." Enjolras touches the chain that Feuilly's pendant is dangling from. "It _worked_." 

"It doesn't matter, because you can't come back. You have to leave me here before they get suspicious." 

"No. What I have to do, what _we_ have to do, is work a little faster." 

Grantaire stares at him like he doesn't understand a word he's saying. 

Enjolras catches his hand and grips it tight. "We're not leaving you behind. We're breaking you out. And we're doing it soon." 

*

The time for equity and introductions has passed. There are still others in the barracks who've yet to meet Grantaire -- Courfeyrac, Cosette, Joly, and they're not the only ones -- but that can't be helped anymore. The very next day, Enjolras gathers up Feuilly, Éponine, and Combeferre and they return. 

The outer doors part as easily as ever for them, but when they reach the inner doors, the pneumatics hold them shut fast. Enjolras presses his lips thin and fights the urge to beat his fists against the door until they give way, or Grantaire does. 

Instead, he connects his datascreen to the console and types out a message. _Let us in, Grantaire. We're here to help._

The response he gets is swift and final. _No. You'll get yourselves killed. Go away._

_I hacked my way in once, I can do it again._

Grantaire's answer is only silence, so Enjolras sighs and starts to type out the lines of code that overrode the locks and let him in the first time. He's only halfway through it, though, when _STOP_ flashes big and bold across his screen, and the hiss of the pneumatics venting their air pressure makes him grin, victorious. 

Between the four of them, they're able to pull the doors open without too much difficulty. The others look wary, keeping safe behind the bulwark of the half-open doors as they eye the light coming out from Grantaire's room, the light that is not blinding, that will allow anyone who cares to look to see Grantaire plain. 

Enjolras just strides on through, trusting Grantaire not to have released the locks without the projection in place. Grantaire stares at him with a hard set to his mouth, unhappy to see him. "I told you," Enjolras says, before he can say a word. "We're getting you out." 

"You'll get yourself killed, and all your friends with you." 

"No." He stops in front of Grantaire, close but not touching. "We won't. Trust us." 

Grantaire chokes out a strangled laugh. "You're mad." 

"That's debatable," Éponine says quietly, coming up to stand with Enjolras. Her gaze roams over Grantaire's face, down the circuitry tracks that wrap around his arms, but aside from her attention, she gives no other indication that there's anything untoward about his appearance, or the fact that she can look at him at all. "I'm more inclined to agree with you than not, most days. But the fact of the matter is, mad or not, we're here. We want to help." 

"Did he tell you what happened?" Grantaire demands. "That woman--" 

"--from Security, yes. He told us. And he got a very strongly-worded lecture about taking ridiculous risks, trust me. But..." She sighs and steps forward. She holds a hand out between them, palm up. Grantaire eyes her warily for a long moment, before he slowly lifts his own hand and places it in hers. She clasps it lightly. "We've talked to you, Grantaire. We've all spent hours in here in your company. We _know_ you. Not well, of course, not yet. But we know you, at least enough to care about you. And there isn't a single one of us who could leave you to your fate in here without hating ourselves. So let us help, please." 

Grantaire stares at her, his eyes pleading. "You shouldn't do this for me," he says, desperate. 

"Grantaire." She takes his face between her hands and he jumps a little, but settles quickly. "If there is anyone on this whole ship that we should do this for, it's you." 

Grantaire doesn't look like he believes it. But he sighs and lifts his hands up to cover hers briefly, gives them a squeeze that makes Éponine smile and step back. "All right," she says, sounding bolstered. "We're going to be multitasking, for the sake of efficiency, and of getting you the fuck out of here. Combeferre and I are going to be putting our heads together to figure out how to disconnect you, and Feuilly will be working on getting you hooked up for wireless, so that we can actually do so without paralyzing the whole ship." 

Grantaire's gaze slides to Enjolras, and Enjolras supposes that he's noticing that Éponine didn't declare any role for him in all of this. Enjolras had wryly observed much the same back in the barracks before they'd left, and Éponine had joked, "You're there for oversight, of course," but he secretly thinks that perhaps she intended more truth behind it than she should have. 

His hacking skills aren't terribly useful here, not now that he's gotten them through the door. He could help Feuilly with the programming for his wireless relay, but Feuilly's a competent enough programmer, he could manage just fine on his own if he needed to. 

The truth is that Enjolras is the one who found Grantaire, and so everyone seems to have adopted the attitude that this is his project, whether he has a useful function in it or not. And the rest of the truth is that Enjolras is grateful for that, because if he'd had to stay back at the barracks while others came and worked, he'd have gone mad inside an hour. 

Grantaire's gaze stays steady on him, but it lengthens and holds, there still isn't any obvious question there, no puzzlement over the reason for Enjolras's presence. "You're doing so much for me," he says softly, as Éponine and Combeferre and Feuilly begin to work around him. "You're risking so much. For me." 

Enjolras clears his throat and shifts closer, careful to keep out of the others' way but close enough that they can have a conversation with the distance separating them becoming awkward. "Anyone would do the same." 

"No," Grantaire says quietly, heavily. "They wouldn't. Or they would have already." 

That's true enough, and every time Enjolras thinks about how long Grantaire has been down here like this, how many generations have been born and lived and died with him trapped here like he's some kind of monster, it makes rage prickle down the back of Enjolras's neck, makes every hair at his nape stand on end. "Anyone _should_ ," he says, low and fierce. 

Grantaire smiles a little, faintly. Enjolras wants to go to him, wants to wrap him in a fierce embrace or grab his hand and clutch at it until Grantaire believes that he's worth the effort. But the others are working and he'll only disturb them, so he stays just where he is, chafing at even that small distance. 

Éponine and Combeferre keep up a steady, quiet stream of conversation between themselves as they take advantage of the projection and their newfound safety to be able to properly inspect Grantaire's connections, and Feuilly talks to himself as he always does when he's putting something together, verbally sorting through any problems or glitches he runs into. It all blurs together into a low, steady hum of conversation that's familiar, and comforting in its familiarity. They could be back in the barracks, working and collaborating on their own projects. 

"The tricky part," Feuilly says abruptly, "isn't going to be the relay. I've been building those since I was five, and I could have practically done this one in my sleep. The tricky part is going to be transferring functionality from the hardwiring to the wireless seamlessly, without any hiccups or interruptions." He glances up at Grantaire, smiles, his dimples flashing. "I don't imagine we want to find out what sorts of things happen when a ship's AI goes offline." 

"No," Grantaire says, quiet and solemn. "You really don't." 

"I think I can help with that," Éponine says, and gestures Feuilly over with a wave. "This is-- Fuck, I've forgotten the words for it. Combeferre, tell him what you told me." 

"See here," Combeferre murmurs, brushing the hair back from Grantaire's nape. "The angle this wire is at, it must feed directly into his medulla oblongata. It's the region of the brain that controls autonomic functions. Breathing, blinking, cardiac function -- all those things that are so vital to life that we don't even have to think about doing them. Our medulla takes care of that for us." 

Feuilly hums thoughtfully. "You think that's where they've wired the ship's basic life support functions?" 

"It makes sense. It's what I would do, if I were barbaric enough to think something like this was a good idea. If you're going to try to turn a man into a ship, the easiest way would be to work with biology, not against it." 

"And this." Éponine holds the wire loosely in the loop of her fingers, traces its path as it arcs down, and then back up to the bank of panels and machinery in the walls. "This looks like climate controls, oxygen sensors, grav generators--which supports his theory. It's old tech, if he predates the wireless then it would have to be, but we learned about it in school some. This is the ship's life support controls, I think we can be sure of it. So I was thinking, we don't start with Grantaire, we start _here_." She pats the panels in the wall. "Wire up a relay here to send the signal -- and receive it from Grantaire, when the time comes. Then we make sure that that's communicating with his relay." She waves a finger through the air, back and forth between the wall and Grantaire. "Then all we have to do to transfer function is clip this wire and connect it to the relay, so the signal can get from the box to him and back again. That's child's play, we could do that in a minute, two tops." She steps back, coming around Grantaire to stand in front of him. "If life support's back up in two minutes, would that be feasible? Would it keep everyone alive and unharmed?" 

"Yes," Grantaire says, his gaze distant in the way that Enjolras has come to understand means he's thinking, running through data and crunching numbers. "Two minutes. No more. And." He takes a deep breath. "You'll want to do that one last. They sent a tech down here to fix a few burnt-out lightbulbs. If they're given reason to think my life support functions are malfunctioning--" 

"It won't take them a few days to send someone else down," Éponine finishes for him grimly. "It'll take minutes, if we're lucky." 

Grantaire nods. 

Enjolras lets them talk, lets them plan. Wires and relays and hardware are Éponine's purview. Enjolras's expertise is with code, and he'll program the relay when she and Feuilly get to the point that they need it, but they'll all be better off if he leaves the wiring and re-wiring to the two of them. 

They spend hours with Grantaire, this time. Enjolras has Feuilly's beacon hidden away in his pocket, should they need it, but he won't activate it unless they get into trouble. They need more than two hours. They need all the time they can get, if they're going to get Grantaire disconnected before Security has a chance to figure out what's going on and come wrap their chains even tighter around him. 

They both end up sitting, cross-legged on the cold floor while Feuilly, Éponine, and Combeferre work around them, taking notes and making plans. Enjolras reaches out and grips Grantaire's hand whenever someone gets a little too interested in the wires or conduits embedded in his skin, prods a little too hard, and Grantaire's eyes go a little wild around the edges. 

"Are you all right?" Enjolras asks him, low, leaning forward so his voice will carry to him. "Is this moving too fast?" 

Grantaire breathes carefully for a moment, his fingers curling tight around Enjolras's hand. "It is moving fast," he says. "But it has to. I understand that." 

It's not really an answer to the question, so Enjolras waits. 

Grantaire lets out a sharp breath. "No. It's fine. I don't need them to stop. I don't _want_ them to. I want to be out of here, before--" 

He leaves the rest unsaid, but it doesn't matter. They all know. 

Before Security gets suspicious. Before Security comes back. Before they all get dragged off to detainment, if they're lucky, or worse, if they're not. Before Grantaire's freedom is snatched away from him before he's had a chance to even experience it. 

"We're getting you out of here," Enjolras says, quiet but firm, and returns the squeezing grip Grantaire has on his hand. "I promise." 

Grantaire's answering smile is a little sad around the edges, and Enjolras knows that he can't quite bring himself to believe him. 

It's all right. Enjolras is going to prove it to him. He'll believe when the last of the wires are severed and all his chains fall away. 

Someone clears their throat nearby, bringing Enjolras back to himself, expanding his awareness back out beyond the two of them, sitting there knees-to-knees with their hands clasped. Enjolras turns toward the source and finds Combeferre there, crouching down beside them. "We've done about all we can do today," he says, almost apologetically. "We can't do much else until Feuilly's got the relay done and we're ready to start clipping wires. Éponine and I"--he gestures to her--"we'll take our notes back and make a step-by-step plan, practice the wiring until we've got the muscle memory down and we know we can do it quickly." 

Enjolras nods, breathes. His chest is tight with anticipation, with fear that they're so close and it might still all go wrong before they've had a chance to finish. "It's a good plan," he says. 

Combeferre hesitates, glancing between the two of them. "Are you coming back with us now?" 

Enjolras wishes he hadn't offered him the choice. Of course he should go back with them now, there's strength in numbers and they're already vulnerable. They should stay together. And what if the others come across Security in the halls, while Enjolras remains here with the beacon? They'll never be able to find them to break them out of detainment. 

But oh, he wants to stay. Grantaire's hand is warm in his, his knees a faint pressure against Enjolras's own, and the thought of leaving him behind, alone and still chained, is unbearable. 

"Go," Grantaire says gently, and pulls his hand from Enjolras's. "Go with your friends. There's nothing else you can do here for me tonight." 

He goes because he must, because Grantaire told him to. But as they reach the inner doors, he hesitates and turns back. "You know how to get in touch with me," he says to Grantaire, urgent. "If you need anything, _anything_ , let me know. If you're just lonely, if you want--" 

Grantaire's lips curve in a slight smile. "Go," he says gently, and gets to his feet. 

The inner doors slide open for them, the easiest exit they've had. Enjolras wishes he had made it harder for them, wishes he had made it easier to stay. 

He goes, and hates every step that carries him away and leaves Grantaire behind, still imprisoned.


	6. Chapter 6

Feuilly's the first to call out sick from a shift, to everyone's surprise. He's usually the least likely amongst their group to shirk his duties, but the relay has preoccupied his every waking minute until the rest of them have started smuggling extra rations out of the mess hall to shove in his hands, and then hover over him to be sure he eats. Enjolras isn't even sure if his illness is feigned or genuine, considering the way he's been running himself ragged. 

Once he calls out, though, it's not long before the rest of them take the excuse to follow suit. Soon enough they're all calling out, the barrack has been declared a quarantine and even those who haven't feigned illness are ordered to stay home until the bug has worked its way through their group so they can't pass it on to any off their shiftmates, and Joly has been assigned as the barrack physician since he's already been exposed. 

They all take shameless advantage of their newfound, and inevitably short-lived, freedom. Soon enough, Feuilly is coming to Enjolras, a small box in his hands, looking pleased and exhausted. "It's done," he says, and his shoulders slump as though he's suddenly been released from a terrible weight. "Near as it can be without in-the-field testing. But I've wired at least half of our datascreens to it, and it's worked like a charm for both transmitting and receiving the wireless signal." 

Enjolras nods, claps Feuilly on the shoulder and thanks him, and then guides him over to Joly for a check-up and, he hopes, some overdue food and rest. When he checks in on Éponine and Combeferre, he finds them similarly worn-down. Éponine's so tired that she's not even sitting up straight anymore, is instead slumped over, letting Combeferre take her weight. But they've got their datascreens on their laps before them and even as Enjolras comes over, even as her eyes are drooping, Éponine's murmuring, "Right, okay, but my grip faltered while I was securing that wire last time. Let's run through it again, I think we can do better." 

"You'll do better when you've had some sleep," Enjolras says, climbing up onto the bunk with them and folding his legs so there's room for all three of them. Combeferre is rubbing at his temples, which is as sure a tell of exhaustion as rubbing at their eyes is for any of the others. Enjolras reaches to touch him lightly on the knee and adds, "Both of you." 

"We're nearly there," Combeferre says, and presses his fingers to the tactile readout of his datascreen. 

"You will get there faster after you've had eight hours of rest." 

" _Enjolras._ " Combeferre's frown is equal parts disapproval and stubborn resistance. 

Enjolras is not a physician, isn't anything even near like being one, but he has lived with Combeferre and Joly for enough years that he's picked up a few pertinent pieces of information and filed them away. Particularly the ones he knows will come in handy later on. "Combeferre," he says with quiet insistence. "You and Éponine need to have this procedure memorized if we're going to be as quick as we need to be, and you know as well as I that the hippocampus requires sleep to properly consolidate memories into long-term storage. You're not doing yourselves any favors by running yourselves to exhaustion like this." 

Combeferre rocks back and stares at him as though Enjolras has just started speaking in tongues. "How do you know--" he starts, but is interrupted by Éponine turning her face against his shoulder to muffle her laughter. 

"Get some sleep," Enjolras says. "You will both be better for it in the morning." 

He's not above getting Joly to administer a sedative, if it comes to that, but Combeferre sighs and shuts down his datascreen, and takes Éponine's from her hands to do the same, and Enjolras thinks he won't have to take such drastic steps. 

"Enjolras," Combeferre says as he rises and starts to move away, to allow them their rest. Enjolras stops and turns back, finds Combeferre stretched out on his bunk but propped up on one arm, looking after him. "You might listen to your own advice, you know." 

Enjolras immediately wants to say, _No, I'm not tired, I'm fine, there's work still to be done, how can I sleep when the rest of you won't,_ but he swallows the words down and gives Combeferre a tight smile. "I might," he concedes, and it's not much, he knows. But Combeferre seems mollified, and he settles down onto his bed. 

There _is_ work still be done, and others to see off to bed before Enjolras can hope to rest. He moves amongst them all, speaking with each in low, quiet tones, checking in on their progress and then urging them to sleep, to rest. 

For the most part, it works. The barracks grows quiet as nearly everyone sets aside their work for the day and settles in for a brief respite. Enjolras lowers the lights in the barracks and programs them not to rise for another eight hours, in hopes that it might help them all get a full night's sleep, and then he settles onto his bunk with his datascreen on his knees, poring over the blueprints once again, to be sure of their strategy. 

His mattress shifts and Enjolras glances up to find Joly sitting with him, looking a little indulgent but mostly determined. "You've urged all the others to sleep," he says quietly. "Won't you heed your own advice?" 

"I will, I promise." Enjolras swipes through the blueprints, frowning at them, searching for anything they might have overlooked. "In a little while." 

"Now, Enjolras. Doctor's orders." 

Enjolras's hands tighten on the edge of his datascreen, impatience and protests fighting up through him. But Joly's watching him quietly, and so instead Enjolras sighs and loosens his grip, setting the 'screen down on the mattress between them. "I can't," he admits softly, and pulls his knees up to his chest. "I've tried, but my mind won't power down. There's too much left to plan, there's too much to _do_..." 

Joly smiles a little. "I thought that might be the case." He opens his bag and pulls out a dermal injection gun. He lays it between them, right next to the datascreen, and meets Enjolras's eyes. "I loaded it with a mild sedative. It'll just quiet your thoughts long enough for you to fall asleep, if you'll let me administer it." 

"I can't." Enjolras shakes his head, shrinking back to press against the headboard of his bunk. "Joly, I know you mean well, but a sedative? I can't. I have to be sharp when this happens. A sedative will slow me down, it'll increase the danger for all of us." 

"It's a short-acting sedative. It'll be well out of your system long before you've finished sleeping, and it won't leave you groggy or dull when you wake, I promise." He shifts on the bunk, grimacing and rubbing at his hip as he reaches to lay a hand on Enjolras's calf. "You're right, of course. You need to be sharp for Grantaire. For all of us. Can you really say you're that right now?" 

Enjolras has been accused of many things in his life, and stubborn and prideful would both probably make top of the list, but he can relinquish both stubbornness and pride for the sake of his friends. He sighs, slumps, admits, "No," and moves closer to Joly so he won't have to strain himself to reach him. "All right. I'll take the sedative." 

Joly nods once, satisfied, and takes up the injection gun. Enjolras shifts sideways on the mattress and pulls up his sleeve, baring his shoulder for Joly to press the muzzle to. 

The gun hisses when it goes off, and burns like straight alcohol poured on a wound. Enjolras gasps and clutches at his arm, but already the room is going fuzzy and soft around him. He tries to blink it away, but his eyes won't focus, and Joly is an indistinct blur in front of him. "Mild?" Enjolras protests, and the sounds don't come out quite right, but Joly must understand because he smiles and puts a hand on Enjolras's shoulder, bearing him down onto his back with the lightest of touches. 

"Mild," he says, tugging the blanket up over Enjolras. "It just comes on a little fast." 

"That's for sure." Enjolras fights back the bubble of laughter rising in him. It's just the medication. "You rest too, doc." 

The blur that is Joly shifts in a way that Enjolras imagines is him smiling. "I will, I promise. Just as soon as I've seen that everyone else is." 

Enjolras wants to protest that, wants to call him a hypocrite, but the sedative is stronger than he is. His eyes droop, heavier by the second no matter how he fights to keep them open. The last thing he knows is Joly rising up, patting his shoulder and shifting his cane to his good side before he moves off to tend to the rest of them. 

Enjolras sleeps, secure in the knowledge that Joly will take care of the others, and ensure the rest. And if he has to, Enjolras will be the one to force Joly into a bed when he wakes. 

*

Enjolras wakes to find most of the group looking sleep-tousled and as though they could use at least another twelve hours of sleep to get back to normal. They probably could, but one full night's sleep will have to do. They can catch up on what they've missed later, when Grantaire's free and they don't have Security breathing down their necks, getting closer every day to discovering what they're up to. The fact that they haven't all been thrown into detainment yet seems compelling evidence that the Security tech lived up to her word and didn't report them, but that was a lucky break, and one they can't count on happening again. They have to do this before someone else comes upon them. 

Joly's the last to wake, but Enjolras is sure that he was also the last to sleep, so he readies the others while they wait for him to rouse. Once everybody is up, they all gather together without needing to be told to do so, and all of them are looking at Enjolras, waiting for his command. 

"Right." Enjolras clears his throat and looks over them all, all his friends, the people he trusts most in the universe. "Éponine, Combeferre, Bahorel, Jehan, and Feuilly will come with me," he says. Éponine, Combeferre, and Feuilly are needed for obvious reasons, and Enjolras wants Bahorel for his muscle, and Jehan for weaponry. Jehan's collection of armaments is vast and impressive, and Enjolras knows that as soon as they disconnect Grantaire, Security will be descending upon them. They'll need muscle, and they'll need weaponry. 

There's a quiet murmur through the group, more of speculation than dissension. Enjolras waits until it's died down before he continues. "Joly, you're meant to be on quarantine with the rest of us. Do you think you can get to sickbay for the medication he's going to need without being stopped or questioned?" 

"I can try." Joly shrugs one shoulder, leaning heavily on his cane. Bossuet and Musichetta have room beside them for him, if he wants it, but when Joly's hips are acting up it's often more comfortable for him to stand than to sit for any length of time. And Joly's hips tend to be worse when he hasn't slept well. "It's not as though I'm not recognizable. I'll do my best, and if worse comes to worst, I made sure to refill my own prescription recently. He and I can share that for a few days, until we're able to steal a greater supply." 

Enjolras nods. "We'll keep Bossuet and Musichetta at your disposal, then, in case you need them. Courfeyrac, you and Marius and Cosette stay here, keep our home base safe, and keep an eye on the feeds. Joly and I, and the rest of us, will be relying on you to let us know if there's any hint that Security might be closing in on either one of us." 

"We'll keep you safe," Cosette promises, solemn, gripping the hands of the two men beside her. "We'll get you home." 

He doesn't doubt her. She's already lost family to detainment once, and he knows firsthand how hard she'll fight to keep from losing anyone else. 

"Thank you." Enjolras reaches out to brush where her hand is closed around Courfeyrac's, thanking them both. Thanking them all. He turns away before he says something that makes it sound as though he doesn't think they'll all make it through this unscathed. "Let's go, then. While Security's distracted by the shift change." 

*

The inner doors are pressurized and locked again, but as soon as Enjolras connects his datascreen to communicate with Grantaire, they slide open. Bahorel gives the doors a wry look as they slide silently back into the walls. "Couldn't have done that before I went and strained myself last time?" he asks, and gives Grantaire a wink. 

Grantaire looks uncertain what to do with the teasing. His brows crease as he frowns at Bahorel, before he leaves the comment unanswered and turns his attention to Enjolras. "Now?" His voice is strained, unsteady. "We're going to do it now?" 

Enjolras nods once and comes forward to grip his hand. "We can't risk taking any longer. Everyone's ready. Are you?" 

"Yes." 

Grantaire has to draw a breath and square his shoulders before he says it, and Enjolras doesn't entirely believe him. But they don't have time for it to be anything but the truth. "Okay. Jehan, Bahorel, you two watch the doors, and keep an eye on the 'screens for any word from the others. Éponine, Feuilly, Combeferre..." He catches their eyes and exchanges a nod with each of them. "You know what you're doing better than I do." 

Éponine smiles a little and gives him a teasing, two-fingered salute before her mirth falls away and leaves her serious, all business. "Keep him centered," she says in an undertone, though Enjolras is sure Grantaire hears it all the same. "Keep him calm." 

"I'll do my best." 

They all take up their positions, Jehan and Bahorel by the doors, Jehan fingering the hilt of a homemade knife and looking thoughtful while Bahorel watches him, and Combeferre and Éponine behind Grantaire where the majority of the wires are, while Feuilly starts taking panels off the walls so they can wire in the relay. Enjolras stays in front of Grantaire and keeps his hand in his. He keeps his grip tight and holds Grantaire's eyes when Éponine and Combeferre start to do something behind him that makes his gaze want to skitter sideways. 

"Are you all right?" Enjolras asks him, low and urgent. 

"Of course not." Grantaire's voice is wild, strained. "I'm terrified." 

"Me too," Enjolras confesses quietly. Over Grantaire's shoulder, Éponine catches his eye and frowns at him, mouths, _This is not keeping him calm,_ but she's wrong. There's a tension in Grantaire that eases at Enjolras's admission. There's relief that washes across his face at the solidarity, at the knowledge he isn't alone in this. 

"What happens," Enjolras asks him quietly. "What happens when the life support goes offline?" 

Grantaire shuts his eyes and leans forward slightly, the faintest list toward Enjolras. "Air circulators stop," he says. "How long the oxygen lasts depends upon where a person is, the size of the room, the number of people in it. But that's the least of the problems. There's enough oxygen to last hours, at least. And there are backup supplies, but if we need those something's gone very very wrong." 

"What else?" Enjolras presses him. They need to know what to be prepared for, but mostly, giving Grantaire something to focus on other than the work going on behind him seems to be helping. His breathing is evening out, and his fingers aren't quite so tight around Enjolras's palm. 

"Grav generator's stop functioning. Those have a lot of momentum behind them, it will take time to wind down fully. You'll feel the effects within the first few minutes, but we shouldn't go weightless so long as you keep to the timeline." Grantaire opens his eyes and meets Enjolras's again. He looks steadier, even though this list of ways that things could go terribly wrong is just making Enjolras feel less so. "Temperature regulation will stop with the air circulation, too. Most places in the ship won't notice it too quickly, but those near the engines, and those at the ship's edge will get hot and cold very quickly, respectively." 

"Security," Enjolras says quietly, and Grantaire nods. Security has all the rooms with windows, all the ones that are separated from the freezing vastness of space by just the ship's outer membrane. Without the temperature regulators, Security will get very cold, and they're bound to send someone to investigate quickly. 

"Right," Enjolras says. "What else?" 

"Propulsion. Navigation." 

Enjolras isn't as worried about those. Security will grow alarmed at the lack of them, of course, but there's no avoiding alarming Security with what they're doing. All they can hope is to keep everyone alive and unharmed, and to get Grantaire out of here before Security can reach them. 

While they're talking, the sharp sound of Éponine's clippers is followed instantly by the room falling to complete darkness. Grantaire gasps and jumps, his hand jolting in Enjolras's. Enjolras holds him tight, holds him steady, slides in close and presses his other hand to Grantaire's shoulder while Éponine and Feuilly talk in hushed, hurried voices behind him. "It's all right," Enjolras says, low, soothing. "It's all right, Grantaire, this is normal. Your controls have to go offline briefly for them to transfer them over to the wireless relay. It'll be back in a minute. Right, guys?" 

"Less than a minute." Éponine's voice is bright and cheerful, but Enjolras can hear the strain in it. They've grabbed Security's attention now for sure, and so long as they get the lights back imminently they shouldn't be causing too much alarm just yet. But it's the first step down the path that's going to inevitably lead them to the forefront of Security's attention, and it makes them all nervous. They've gotten by this long by taking great pains to stay off of Security's radar. "Hold still, Grantaire, I know this is strange but we're working blind here, if you shift around on us that just makes things harder, and slower." 

This feels familiar, almost. He's blinded by darkness this time rather than light, but even so. Standing blind with Grantaire, judging his moods based on the sound of his breathing and the tone of his words. This is familiar territory, and Enjolras is grateful for it. He's grateful, too, to have Grantaire's hand in his, another way of judging his state of mind, the tension in him translated into the tightness of his grip. 

"Tell me how you feel," Enjolras urges him, low and steady. 

"Broken." Grantaire's voice cracks. He holds himself very still, but Enjolras can feel the fine trembling working its way through him. "This isn't right, it's not supposed to be like this. I feel like--" His fingers loosen around Enjolras's hand, then clench tight again. "I know how to turn the lights up. I can do it with a thought. For centuries, I've been doing it with a thought. Now I do, but it doesn't respond." His voice goes sharp and frantic. His hand jerks wildly against Enjolras's grip. "Is this what it's like to be paralyzed?" 

"Shhh." Éponine's hand grazes Enjolras's as she sets hers on Grantaire's shoulder as well. "It's temporary, all right? How many medical procedures are out there that involve numbing or paralyzing a limb? And it's frightening, but it's for a good cause. It's beneficial." 

There's a stretch of silence punctuated only by the sound of Éponine and Feuilly working, and the rapid cadence of Grantaire's breathing. "R?" Enjolras ventures. 

"I'm counting," he says, a little sharp, a little quick. Enjolras listens to him take a long, deep breath, and then let it out slowly. He's steadier. "One hundred eighty-six." 

Combeferre gives a low whistle, like he's impressed. "You and I are going to have to compare notes later. I was off by half. I'm getting rusty." 

"I'm faster," Grantaire says, "but you have the same resources I do. You'd have come up with the same number, if you'd pored through your textbooks." 

Halfway through his last sentence, the lights come back on again, blinding to Enjolras's dark-adjusted eyes. Even as he's flinching and bringing the hand on Grantaire's shoulder up to rub at them, Éponine and Feuilly cheer. "Can you control them now, Grantaire? Give it a try." 

The lights cycle up to the old blinding, heated brightness, down to the complete darkness they just came out of, and then back up to a natural, comfortable level. "Yes." Grantaire's voice shakes, but this time Enjolras thinks it's from excitement. "It works." 

"Congratulations," Éponine says. "You've got your very first system hooked up to wireless." 

"Now we just need to get the rest of them switched over," Feuilly says, and he's smiling but it's the sobering reminder they all need, that this is just the first step down a long road. 

Feuilly, Combeferre, and Éponine all duck their heads and get back to work. Enjolras keeps his gaze on Grantaire's and their hands locked together, while from the door Jehan calls out, "Cosette says there's some activity going on in the hall outside the barracks. She doesn't think they suspect it's anything more than a glitch, not yet, and she doesn't think that they know it's us, but we've definitely been noticed." The knife that Jehan grips glints as it flips from one hand to the other, and there's a hard glint in Jehan's eye, too. There's a storm coming and they all know it. They're bringing it down on themselves. 

The minutes creep by, endless and plodding and each of them fraught with tension. There aren't any more signs of systems being switched over as obvious as the lights were, but every few minutes Grantaire will stiffen, or his mouth with go tight, or his hand we'll clench on Enjolras's, and a moment after that Éponine or Feuilly will announce, "All right, sensors and monitors have been transferred over. Grantaire, give it a try?" and Grantaire will go thoughtful and distant and then nod, and they'll all pause just long enough to let out a swift breath before they gather themselves up again and move on to the next. 

The wires are falling away from Grantaire, slowly, one at a time, but there's a tangle of them twisting around Grantaire's feet now. Enjolras kicks them away. He'd tear them all from the walls and hurl them out into the blackness of space if he could, but Grantaire seems relieved just to have them gone. He seems lighter. Pensive still, worried, and who could blame him? But for all the strain and the worry, he thinks that Grantaire is glad. 

"Grantaire," Combeferre says quietly over his shoulder. "I need to disconnect the nutrient conduit now. This is going to be a little more invasive than the wires, since we can't just leave it sticking out of you. It's really important that you don't move, all right?" 

Grantaire's mouth goes tight at the edges. His gaze bores into Enjolras's like he's the only thing keeping Grantaire tethered. "I won't," he says, faint but clear. 

Combeferre nods and disappears behind him, and a moment later Grantaire's whole body jerks and goes wire-tight. 

"Grantaire." Enjolras slides in closer so he'll dominate Grantaire's field of view. He squeezes Grantaire's hand until Grantaire looks at him, and Enjolras forces himself to look past the pain on his face. "What do you want to do, once you're free? Centuries you've been trapped in here, surely there must be something you've missed, something you want to do again. What is it? Tell me and we'll do it. We'll make it happen." 

Grantaire shudders and squeezes his eyes shut. He tries to speak twice before he manages to make a sound. "The stars." His voice is a rasp, harsh and painful. "I want to see the stars." 

There is no feasible way Enjolras can think of to make that happen, but he doesn't hesitate. "You will. I promise you will. If we haven't sailed too far past it by now, you can see the planet outside, too. Would you like that? What else?" 

Grantaire's lips quirk into an encouraging hint of a smile. He starts to speak, but Combeferre does something that makes him gasp, makes him lose his words on a grimace. When he speaks again, it's to say, "I don't remember. There used to be things I missed, but I don't remember anymore." 

"We'll make sure you get to do all of them. Everything you've been missing out on. I swear it." 

Grantaire's smile is strained and a little sad, like he doesn't believe it, or he's not sure he'll make it to see it. But Enjolras keeps his grip on his hand and keeps talking through all the pained grimaces and the rapid breathing and the sweat breaking out across Grantaire's skin, doing the only thing he can to help him through it until finally Combeferre steps back, gloved hands held up and just a little bloody at the fingertips, and says, "All right, it's out, and it's stitched up." 

Grantaire slumps as though the tension was the only thing keeping him upright. Enjolras moves to catch him, but he doesn't fall, just leans forward heavily against Enjolras, letting him take his weight. Enjolras holds him, careful to avoid the wound on his back when he brings his arms around him. 

Combeferre comes around from behind him and strips off his gloves before he touches Grantaire's shoulder lightly to get his attention. Grantaire turns his head so he can see Combeferre but doesn't move, otherwise. 

"You'll need to eat in a little while, I expect, now that you're not being fed a constant stream of nutrients. Let us know and we'll make sure you have something to eat that will be gentle on your stomach. Of more immediate import, however, are the medications I'm sure they were administering, as well, to keep the cybernetics working and integrated. You haven't met him yet, but Joly's got a cybernetic leg so he's got an excuse to need that prescription. We'll have you share his until we can get you a supply of your own, but you may experience some effects, transitioning from a constant, monitored level in your bloodstream to the peaks and troughs that come of taking it orally. Let us know if you do, when you do, and we'll use that to figure out how much you should be taking, and when." 

Grantaire nods and turns his face in against Enjolras's shoulder. "How much is left?" His words are muffled against Enjolras's shirt. 

"Just the big one," Éponine says. "Are you ready for it?" 

"No." Grantaire blinks rapidly, his eyelashes sweeping across Enjolras's skin. "Do it anyway." 

Éponine catches Enjolras's eye over Grantaire's shoulder. She holds it for a moment, and Enjolras doesn't know what she sees but when the moment has passed she gives a sharp nod. "Right. There's some work to do before we're ready to disconnect. Give us a moment." 

She and Feuilly bend their heads together and talk, working out of Enjolras's sight. Enjolras holds Grantaire, feeling helpless at the tremors that course through him. 

"Ready," Éponine says, and it's not a question. 

"Ready," Feuilly says, and Combeferre echoes. 

There's the sharp sound of Éponine's clippers cutting through wire, and Grantaire's fingers dig sharp into Enjolras's back. 

The others are already moving, already progressing through the series of steps they've outlined and practiced. But Enjolras shuts his eyes and feels the hum of the engines beneath his feet fade to stillness. The quiet rush of the circulators die and the air in the room goes still. There's a moment of pure, perfect stillness, of quiet like none of them have ever known before. 

Outside, there will be panic. There will be terror. But in here it's calm, just the weight of Grantaire in his arms and the quiet, methodical work of the others behind him. 

Enjolras meant to count the seconds. They have two minutes at most, that's what Grantaire said, and with nothing else to do to help, Enjolras meant to keep track of the time, to keep them on schedule. But the seconds are slipping by him, to slippery to count, and he doesn't know if it's been one minute or ten when Éponine says, "Relay One is wired in. Feuilly?" 

"Almost-- There." Feuilly clicks something into place. "All right. Grantaire? Give it a whirl." 

Grantaire lifts his head from Enjolras's shoulder. He stares into the distance, stares at nothing, his eyes gone black and strange even though the light is plenty bright enough. Enjolras's heart quickens in his chest. 

The floor hums beneath his feet, then grows to a steady, familiar vibration. A draft cuts through the stagnant air, cooling the sweat that's broken out across his skin. 

Combeferre turns his face up to the flow of air, then turns it to Grantaire. "It's working?" 

Grantaire's throat jumps and he nods. "I think so. I'll need to run diagnostics to be sure that everything's functioning properly, but. I think so." 

"Congratulations." Bahorel genuinely means it, even though he crosses to them briskly and catches Grantaire by the arm. "You can run diagnostics later. Marius says Security's on the move, and we need to be too." 

Everyone has their tools packed up in an instant, bags slung over shoulders, and those they can live without left abandoned on the floor of Grantaire's room. 

Enjolras makes a mental note to stop calling it that. It's not Grantaire's prison any longer. Now it's just another room. "Ready to go?" he asks Grantaire quietly. 

Grantaire's eyes go a little wide and his lips part as though he's surprised by his freedom even now. Even after all of this. He recovers in half a second, presses his mouth to a determined line and gives a single, sharp nod. "Yes." He steps back, putting an appropriate distance between the two of them again. Enjolras feels cold. "Let's go." 

Enjolras nods and grips his hand, and they all crowd into the vestibule between the inner and outer doors. 

Jehan listens with a cheek pressed to the doors, then nods and gives a significant glance back to Grantaire, whose gaze goes distant a moment before the doors slide open. The hallway beyond is empty, but not for long -- they can already hear the distant slap of boots on metal flooring, authoritative shouts as Security makes their way closer. 

"Aft," Jehan says, glancing down at the blueprints where they charted out their course back to the barracks, a different path than the one they usually take just in case they've been noticed before tonight. 

Enjolras grips Grantaire's hand tight. They all pour out into the hallway, take a right to head towards the aft of the ship, and then they run.


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras's breath comes short and sharp, the air painful in his lungs as he gasps to fill them and forces himself to keep running. They're all fit, or as fit as they can be with the limit space of the ship to move around in, but they're all worn to the bone and running on too little sleep for too many days. Norepinephrine surges through him, spiking high and flooding him with renewed vigor, but it burns up quickly and soon leaves him to crash back down into exhaustion. 

They're making good time through the halls, back to the barracks. Grantaire's hand clenched tight in Enjolras's feels like a miracle, but they don't have time to stop and marvel over it. Not yet. He can marvel once Grantaire is safe. Once all his friends are. 

Twice, they nearly run into Security. The first, coming around a bend in the hall, and Bahorel in the lead suddenly backpedals, grabs Jehan by a sleeve and drags everyone back. They can hear them, in the brief instant that the sound of Security's heavy steps isn't drowned out by the frantic patter of their own, and they all scramble back, pushing Grantaire ahead of them so that they're all a human buffer between him and Security, just in case. They run and duck down the nearest adjoining corridor, shrink far back enough to not be noticed unless someone glances purposefully down the hall. Grantaire lowers the lights, cloaking them all in shadow, and they all hold their breath as Security goes running past, trading urgent snatches of conversation with one another and barking out commands through their intercoms, or being barked at. 

No one moves for a minute after they've gone, for two, for three. Then they're running again, as quickly and quietly as they're able. 

The second time, they're not running. The sounds of Security all around them grow louder as they get closer to the inhabited areas of the ship, and out of the void. They start taking their time, huddling as a group while one or two venture forth to ensure the way is clear. 

Enjolras knows as soon as he sees Éponine stiffen, half a dozen yards ahead of them as she checks to make sure the way is safe, that she's been seen. He stiffens and grabs on to Grantaire as he jolts at the realization, a half second behind the rest because he doesn't know Éponine or the way she moves like the rest of them do. 

Jehan's face is murderous, knife in-hand and fingers wrapped tight around the hilt, a testament to what's intended. Enjolras grabs Jehan's shoulder before anyone can move, catches Jehan's eye and shakes his head. "Give her a chance," he breathes, loud enough to reach the others but no further. 

Ahead, they can hear the muffled, commanding voices of Security. And Éponine, clearer, closer, going, "Well of course I'm running, the _engines stopped_ , didn't you all feel it?" Her breathing gets quicker, her voice goes higher pitched, verging on hysteria. "Oh my stars, we're all going to die, aren't we? We're going to fall out of the sky, or drift forever, or-- I have to get back, I have to make sure everyone's okay." She pushes past Security and out of Enjolras's sight, sobbing into her hands. Security eventually leaves her be and continues on their way, past where the rest of them stand cowering, too distracted by Éponine's outburst to notice them hiding down an intersecting corridor. 

In a minute, Éponine's back, looking solemn as she dashes the feigned tears from her cheeks. "Let's get back," she says, grim. "Before I have to suck up to any more of those assholes." 

The rest of their flight back is punctuated by the frequent sounds of Security rushing about, but uneventful otherwise, and they reach the barracks without any further incident. Bahorel reaches the door first and grunts when he finds it barred from the inside. He raps a fist against it, not too loud, and calls out, "It's us. Let us in." 

A moment passes and then the bolt scrapes free and Bahorel pulls the door open, revealing Cosette's worried face on the other side, and Courfeyrac and Marius looking equally fretful beyond her. "We're all fine," he says first, then pushes the door open enough that they can all spill through. 

Enjolras lets go of Grantaire just long enough to ensure the door is closed and locked behind them all. And then, finally, for the first time that day he feels as though he can breathe. When he returns to Grantaire's side, Cosette is there, clasping his hand and smiling warmly at him. 

"You must be Grantaire," she's saying. "It's so very nice to meet you. I'm Cosette, and this is Courfeyrac and Marius." She gestures the two men forward and facilitates the introductions. "And you've met Musichetta and Bossuet already, I think? They're out with their boyfriend, Joly, trying to get supplies from sickbay, but they'll be back soon." 

"They're still out?" Enjolras guides Grantaire over to the nearest bunk and lets him sit. "They should have been back before Security sent the alarm up." 

Cosette gives an eloquent shrug with one shoulder, and Enjolras knows what she means. Plans are one thing, but they rarely survive the execution. They were lucky that gaining Grantaire his freedom went off as smoothly as it did. If Joly ran into a delay, that's more like the sort of luck they're used to having. They'll all just have to stay together, keep an ear out for the door, and hope for the best. 

The rap at the door and the quiet call of, "We're back. Finally," comes over half an hour later, and makes them all jump. 

Jehan's closest, and goes to unlock the door, allowing Joly, Musichetta, and Bossuet through. Joly's got an arm around Musichetta for support and is limping heavier than usual, which Enjolras frowns to see. He's not usually in that much pain, not unless he's pushed himself too fast for too long. Enjolras doesn't like to think what might have prompted such a rush. 

But they're all home now, they're all safe, so he forces himself to release a breath and let go of the tension. Musichetta and Bossuet help Joly over to the bunk that Enjolras is sitting on with Grantaire and help him lower himself down at Enjolras's side. 

"Are you all right?" Enjolras asks him quietly, clasping his arm. 

Joly waves a hand, dismissing his concern. "It's nothing some rest won't ease." 

Rest has been in short supply these past days, and Enjolras doesn't suppose that it's going to get any more plentiful now that Grantaire is free, and Security is alarmed. Enjolras watches Joly with concern, but Joly is leaning past him, his attention preoccupied. 

"You must be Grantaire," he says. 

Grantaire gives a little laugh. "I must be. Everyone keeps saying so." 

Joly flashes a grin. "I'm Joly. Sorry I couldn't make it down earlier, but--" He gestures to his bad leg, hiking up the cuff of his pants enough that Grantaire can see the cybernetics. "I'm not too quick on my feet, lately, and I'm far too precious to be allowed to fall into Security's hands." 

The joke makes the corners of Grantaire's mouth curve, and Enjolras could hug them both he's so glad to see it. "I know you've done work to help disconnect me," Grantaire tells him, "even if you couldn't be there in person. Thank you." He falters then, and looks out at all of them, most sprawled and exhausted. "Thank you all." 

"Don't thank us," Éponine says, the first to speak, and she's frowning. "We didn't do it for your gratitude. We did it because it was right, and maybe a little bit we did it for us. We didn't do it for thanks." 

"That may be," Grantaire tells her quietly, "but it doesn't change the fact that I am grateful." 

"Are you hungry?" Feuilly asks. "Thirsty? Tired?" 

"Exhausted." Grantaire's shoulders slump with the admission. "Could I sleep? I don't do it much, but I think I'd like to." 

"I need to dress the stitches on your back," Combeferre says with an apologetic grimace. 

"Let me?" Enjolras holds a hand out for the bandages and supplies that Combeferre already has at the ready. "I've seen you do it enough times, I think I can handle it on my own. He can take my bunk, I won't need it for a while, and I'll bandage him up, and maybe we can accomplish both tasks together." 

Combeferre hands the supplies over without a protest, and Enjolras gathers them all in his arms and leads Grantaire over to his own bunk, where the blankets are still tousled and messy from the previous night's sleep. "Lie on your stomach." He pats the mattress and waits until Grantaire has done so, stretching out on his stomach and pillowing his head on his arms. 

Enjolras settles beside him, sitting propped at the very edge of the mattress by Grantaire's hip. He brushes the curls of hair and wire away from the back of his neck to reveal the line of sutures. They're recent enough there's still inflammation around them, the brown skin darker and redder where it's puffed up around each stitch. It looks tender and raw and Enjolras wouldn't dare touch it if he didn't know it was absolutely necessary. The last thing any of them needs is for Grantaire to take an infection. It's not as though they can just bring him to sickbay for treatment, if he needs it, and there's only so much Joly can do in the barracks without causing suspicion. 

"This may sting," Enjolras warns in a low tone, and carefully spreads antibiotic ointment across the line of stitches. 

Grantaire stiffens, a tense jolt beneath Enjolras's hand. He stills and pulls away, already apologizing, but Grantaire gives a sharp shake of his head. "No. Don't. It's-- I'm unaccustomed to pain." 

"I'm sorry," Enjolras says, feeling wretched. 

Grantaire huffs out a breath. "Don't be." He turns his face in against his arm, hiding it, as though he can't bear to look at Enjolras as he speaks. "I'm unaccustomed to a lot. But I didn't think this was going to be painless. And if I'd wanted to stay comfortable I'd have stayed where I was in that room." 

Enjolras hums a thoughtful sound of noncommittal encouragement. Grantaire doesn't move, and doesn't tense up when Enjolras lays a hand on his shoulder in warning, so he takes him at his word and continues applying the antibiotic. "There's going to be lots of bandage changes in your future, if I know Joly, and I do. I've been on the receiving end a time or two, and I can promise you that none of them are going to be fun. But none of them will be as bad as it is right now." When he's satisfied with the application of the ointment, Enjolras lays the bandage over it, a large square of white gauze sealed inside a sterilization pack. He tapes the gaze in place, careful to ensure that it won't inhibit Grantaire's range of movement too much, and then sits back with a sigh. "I'm sorry." 

Grantaire turns his head enough that he can peer at Enjolras with one eye through the hair cascading into his face. "For hurting me?" 

"For everything." 

Grantaire's voice turns disbelieving. "For _helping_ me?" 

"For everything," Enjolras says again, softly. And Joly is giving him a dire frown from across the barracks, so Enjolras pats Grantaire's shoulder and gets to his feet. "Get some rest, Grantaire. R. You've earned it." 

There's still much for the rest of them to do. As Grantaire sighs and settles deeper into the mattress, Enjolras moves away to go speak with the others. They've accomplished something incredible here today, but the time for planning isn't over. It's scarcely even begun. 

*

Grantaire only sleeps a few hours before he rises again, struggling upright in Enjolras's bunk and pushing fingers through his hair. Enjolras abandons his conversation with Jehan to go to his side. "You didn't sleep very long. You should try to get some more." 

Grantaire shakes his head. "I don't, generally. It's all well and good for a person to sleep a quarter of their life away, but it's not very ideal in a ship." He grimaces as he rises and reaches a hand around to feel at the edges of the bandage before he sighs and drops his hand back down to his side. 

"That can't be healthy," Enjolras says, frowning. And he'd say more, he'd brace a hand on Grantaire's shoulder and push until he dropped back down onto the bed, but Grantaire's gaze has gone suddenly distant and glassy, sliding around the room as though he can't see anything before him, or can't recognize any of it. "What's wrong?" 

"I feel..." He throws a hand out, catches it on the edge of the bunk above Enjolras's. He looks at Enjolras, but he doesn't see him. His breath catches, and there's a break in his voice when he says, "Something's not right." 

"Sit. For heaven's sake, sit down." Enjolras does push him, then, and bellows, "Joly! Combeferre!" over his shoulder as he drops down beside Grantaire and presses a hand to his brow. 

He's warm, but he doesn't seem unduly so. His breathing is, perhaps, a little rapid, a little shallow, but how is Enjolras meant to know what's normal for a man who's at least half cybernetic artificial intelligence? 

Combeferre and Joly are at his side in an instant, Joly only half a step behind despite the cane. Combeferre's got the medical kit that they generally share between them, except when Joly is on duty in the sickbay, and he drops to his knees by the bedside while Joly takes the mattress on the other side of Grantaire from Enjolras. "What is it? What's the matter?" 

"I don't know, but _something_ is." Enjolras cups a hand under his chin and turns Grantaire's face to his. "Grantaire? Talk to me, please. Tell me what's wrong." 

"Lightheadedness," Grantaire says without inflection, as though speaking from very far away. His eyes won't focus on Enjolras, they just keep sliding right past. "Palpitations. Mental disorientation. Vertigo, lethargy--" 

"Hypoglycemia," Combeferre says abruptly, and lets out a breath. Beside him, Joly nods his agreement. "Grantaire, it's all right. We brought a tray of food for when you woke, we just didn't expect it to come on you so strong, or so sudden." 

"Foolish of us," Joly agrees. "If your body's accustomed to a constant, steady state, the drop in blood sugar would hit you harder and sooner than the rest of us. Combeferre will go get your tray and you'll be right as rain in a few minutes, all right?" Combeferre rises and moves away even as Joly speaks. "And in the meantime, I imagine you'll be wanting one of these, too." 

Grantaire struggles to focus on Joly as he pulls a rattling bottle out of his pocket, twists the cap of one-handed, and shakes a few of the pills inside out onto his palm. He holds them out to Grantaire, and Grantaire carefully lifts a hand and selects one, then holds it like he's not sure what to do with it. 

"That's the medication we prescribe to patients with cybernetics. It helps the body keep things integrated and working smoothly together. Go on, take it. Between that and the food, you'll be feeling better in no time." 

Grantaire pops the pill into his mouth just as Combeferre returns with a tray of plain tea, toast, and a thin, brothy soup. "We'll get you more as you're able to keep that down," he says, and offers him the mug of tea. Grantaire uses it to wash down the pill, then balances the tray on his knees and eats avidly. 

Grantaire makes it through the tea, half the soup, and a few bites of toast before he starts to grimace and push the food around his plate rather than eat. "Are you full?" Combeferre asks him quietly, a gentle hand on his back. "It's all right if you are. Your stomach isn't used to being anything but empty, I imagine you'll fill up quick until you get used to it. You don't have to finish, there's plenty more where that came from." 

Grantaire nods and pushes the tray away. Joly catches it and sets it aside where it won't get spilled. 

"I remember liking eating," Grantaire says, his head in his hands, his voice muffled by his palms. "Or-- I think I do." 

"Most do enjoy it, generally speaking. It's kind of an evolutionary advantage. It will get better, Grantaire. I promise." 

Joly is wrong. Fifteen minutes later, Grantaire abruptly lurches to his feet and staggers across the barracks. Enjolras jumps up and follows after him, alarmed, until he staggers into the bathroom. 

Enjolras reaches the doorway a moment after he does, and finds Grantaire on his knees, bent double as he gags and retches into the toilet. 

"Oh, R." Enjolras sinks down to his knees beside him and brushes Grantaire's hair back out of his face. "I'm sorry. This isn't what I'd hoped your first day of freedom would be like." 

Grantaire straightens enough to wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand. He twists a little, enough to look back over his shoulder at Enjolras. His eyes are red and watery, his smile thin and feeble as he says, "What sort of a day did you wish me to have?" 

"I wanted there to be celebration. Victory." Enjolras drops his hand down out of Grantaire's hair to rub comforting circles across his back, careful to avoid the fresh sutures. "Maybe some dancing down the halls thumbing our noses at Security." 

It makes Grantaire give a breath of laughter, which was Enjolras's intent. Grantaire ducks his head, smiling faintly. "I seem to have ruined your plans. I should apologize." 

"Don't." The smile falls off of Enjolras's face. "Don't ever." 

Grantaire's expression twists like he means to protest the sentiment, but before he can he abruptly spins and bends over the toilet again, retching. Nothing comes up, which Enjolras supposes is a minor blessing, but he shifts closer and holds the hair back out of Grantaire's face all the same, just in case. 

It's long minutes before the nausea eases its grip and Grantaire can settle back on his heels again, breathing hard and looking miserable. 

"Should I go get Joly or Combeferre?" 

Grantaire shakes his head. "I don't know what they could do. They'll only fuss, and I don't want that." 

It doesn't escape Enjolras's notice that _he's_ fussing. He hesitates, withdrawing his hand from Grantaire's hair now that he's not bent over the toilet bowl and in need of it. "Would you rather I go?" he asks quietly. He's been ill himself before, and he knows sometimes the only thing he wants from anyone is to be left alone. He won't like it, but he'll do it for Grantaire if that's what he wants. 

But Grantaire's eyes go wide with alarm in the moment before he shakes his head again, harder, frantic. "No. No, please. I just--" He reaches out for Enjolras, but hesitates before his hand touches skin. Enjolras doesn't dare to breathe, but Grantaire drops his hand back to his side with contact unmade. "You're fine. Please don't. I've had quite enough of being alone." 

Enjolras nods and settles down again. Grantaire relaxes once he does. "Would you like me to go ask Joly and Combeferre if there's anything else we could be doing for you?" 

"No. Not yet. Maybe later, if it doesn't pass on its own." He looks thoroughly unimpressed by that prospect. 

"Whatever you want," Enjolras says. "You only need name it." 

Grantaire nods and shoots him a grateful look. "Just, for now, just hold my hair?" 

Enjolras does as Grantaire hunches over the bowl again, carefully pulling his hair back and holding it gathered loosely at his nape as the dry heaves take over Grantaire again, and Enjolras settles in for a long evening. 

*

It's inevitable that eventually Joly and Combeferre would notice their prolonged absence and come looking for them on their own. "This seems a little extreme," Combeferre says, looking them both over. "Will you let us perform an exam?" 

Grantaire looks as though he's been dragged through hell and back again, worn and raw around the edges. He doesn't even nod, just drags himself to his feet and stands there, swaying. Enjolras rises with him and guides him out with a hand on his shoulder, across the barracks to Joly's bunk. Grantaire sits when they direct him to, and Joly starts by taking his temperature while Combeferre feels at his wrist for his pulse. 

"Elevated," Joly pronounces a moment later, and Combeferre hums and says, "His pulse, too. Grantaire, can you tell me how you feel?" 

"Terrible," Grantaire says with feeling, leaning his brow against the post at the corner of Joly's bed that supports the bunk above. He looks like it's the only thing that's keeping him upright. 

Enjolras grips his hand, careful to keep out of the way of the other two, so they can do their jobs. "Come on, Grantaire, I know you have a more analytical mind than that. Tell them how you feel in a way that can actually use, won't you?" 

"Unsteady." Grantaire doesn't open his eyes as he lists more of his weight against the beam. "Hungry, but too nauseous to keep anything down. Weak. Chilled." He draws a deep breath. "That would be explained by the elevated temperature, though. My databases indicate an eighty-six percent probability that these symptoms are caused by the influenza virus." 

"No one's sick," Enjolras says quietly, resting a hand on Grantaire's knee. "And even if they were, there should be an incubation period, right?" He glances at Combeferre for confirmation. "People don't usually get sick hours after exposure." 

The corner of Combeferre's mouth kicks up, and Enjolras can guess well enough that it's bemusement at hearing Enjolras use words like _incubation period_ when that's generally Combeferre and Joly's purview. "That's generally true," he agrees, "but we can't know how Grantaire's augmentations would affect that." 

"Or the fact that he's been kept isolated for centuries," Joly says. "Viruses mutate. He's not likely to have antibodies for any of our current diseases. They could ravage his system much more quickly than they would one of ours." 

Enjolras tightens his hand on Grantaire's knee, frowning. "Do _you_ think it's the flu?" he demands of his friends. 

Joly shrugs with one shoulder, and Combeferre looks torn. "It's true, there aren't any of our ranks who are symptomatic. There's Feuilly, but he'd have been a carrier even before he fell ill, the last time he visited Grantaire. If he were going to catch it this quickly and this easily, he'd have caught it then." 

"Another high-probability alternative is morning sickness," Grantaire says, dry, as he swipes at a strand of hair that clings to the sweat on his brow. "But I thought that unlikely, considering." 

It's a relief to hear Grantaire capable of humor, when he looks so thoroughly miserable. It's a glimpse of hope, in any case. Things can't be _too_ irredeemably bad, if he's capable of making a joke. 

"We'll have to monitor you, that's all," Joly says, brisk and final. "I'll have Combeferre draw a blood sample for culturing, just in case, but it's likely the progression of symptoms will tell us more, and faster." 

Grantaire struggles upright, seems to fight to get his eyes open and even half-focused on Joly's face. "That sounds like you're telling me it's going to get worse before it gets better." 

Joly grimaces, apologetic. "It very well might." 

Grantaire just nods resigned acceptance and lists over until he's curled on his side on the bunk. He fights to get the blanket out from underneath him, then drags it up over himself until only his face is uncovered, his tawny skin taking on a grey cast beneath the gold paths of the circuitry. "You'd better find a bowl, in case I manage to bring anything up," he says, faint and thin. "I'd hate for you all to have to clean up after me." 

"I'll go find something," Combeferre says, and leaves to go do so. 

Enjolras settles down on the floor beside the head of the bed, sliding his fingers through Grantaire's hair. His skin feels like a brand against his fingertips, hot enough to be frightening. "We'd do it without complaint. You have to know we would." 

Grantaire doesn't open his eyes, but his mouth quirks. "That's why I'd rather you didn't have to." He sighs, long and weary and drawn-out. "I'm going to sleep now, I hope. Stay?" 

"Of course." Enjolras slides his fingers deeper. "I'm not going anywhere." 

*

Grantaire sleeps, and eventually, Enjolras does too, sitting upright and leaning against the edge of the bed and the post support. He wakes to a back that screams in protest at the abuse and to Grantaire hanging over the edge of the mattress, dry heaving violently into the bowl Combeferre found for him. 

Overhead, the lights flicker. Enjolras glances up at them, and then at Grantaire, pressing the back of a hand to his mouth as though he can hold the retching at bay. "Is that you?" 

"I'm trying not to. I'm trying--" Grantaire grabs the bowl and hunches over it, and the lights go out for a full thirty seconds this time, before they come wavering back to life. "I'm sorry." 

Enjolras lets his breath out on a rush. He remembers how the lights in Grantaire's prison had responded so readily to his changing moods, and he thinks about how desperately miserable Grantaire looks, and how terrible Enjolras always feels when he's the one who's ill. "No, don't be." He puts a hand on Grantaire's shoulder and gives it a comforting squeeze. "It's just the lights. We can do without them if we ned to." 

Grantaire looks unconvinced, but his illness requires too much of his attention for him to protest. "I hurt," he says faintly, leaning his head in his hands. His shirt is plastered to his back with sweat, his hair to his nape with it. His shoulders slump and his back hunches. "Everywhere. I can't stop shaking." He holds a hand out so Enjolras can see how it trembles. 

Enjolras frowns. "I'm getting Joly," he decides, and gets to his feet. Whatever this is, it's getting too bad too quickly for them to just sit back and wait for it to run its course. People die from the flu, sometimes. They can't take that chance. 

Enjolras crosses the barracks to where Joly is sitting with Bossuet and Musichetta, gives them all an apologetic smile before he kneels down before Joly. "He's getting worse," he says quietly, urgently. "There has to be something we can do." 

Joly's brows knit. "I can give him an antipyretic. There are antiemetics I can administer, but I don't keep those on hand, we'd have to get them from sickbay." 

"Whatever it takes," Enjolras says, firm. "We have to--" 

It's only because he's kneeling the way he is, one hand pressed to the floor for support, that Enjolras feels it. The way the floor shudders beneath them, a violent tremor, and then goes perfectly, unnaturally still. 

Enjolras looks up at Joly, at his faint frown as he begins to notice, too. The engines are stopped. 

"Grantaire," Enjolras says, and spins around toward his bunk. Grantaire is on his feet, gripping the support posts of the bunks as he tries to make his way toward them. He's breathing hard and soaked in sweat, and when Enjolras speaks his name he lifts his gaze and looks around as though surprised to hear it. 

Enjolras is on his feet in an instant, starting across the distance between them. "Grantaire, you shouldn't--" 

"Something-- Something's wrong," he says, gasped out, and before Enjolras can reach him, his eyes roll back in his head and he crumples to the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

Enjolras sits cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the barracks with Grantaire's head supported on his lap while Joly and Combeferre work quickly at a preliminary examination. "He needs to go to sickbay." 

Joly lifts his head and frowns at Enjolras. "We might as well message Security ourselves and tell them who we are and where we can be found and that we have Grantaire and they're welcome to come pick him up at their earliest convenience. Sickbay isn't empty, and even if it were, it wouldn't be safe." 

"Nowhere is safe right now." 

Combeferre's mouth tightens at the corners. "That may be, but we could at least make their jobs a little bit harder than throwing ourselves into their grasp." 

Enjolras forces himself to breathe past the tightness constricting his chest. He forces himself to stay where he is, stroking the hair out of Grantaire's face and watching the way his eyes flicker back and forth beneath his eyelids. Enjolras's voice, when he speaks again, comes out strangled and strained. "What's wrong with him?" 

"We don't know yet." There's censure in Joly's words, an unspoken _You know that, I know you know that, why ask a question whose answer you already know?_

Enjolras knows. That's the point. "Can you diagnose him here?" 

The only answer that gets is a lengthy silence and a wordless glance exchanged between Joly and Combeferre. 

"He's the ship," Enjolras says, his hands curling too tight on Grantaire's shoulders. "If he dies, we all die." 

"We don't know he's--" 

"We don't know he isn't, either. The engines are dead." Enjolras swallows the stone in his throat, the panic that's rising in him as the minutes tick by and the engines don't start humming again. "How panicked do you think Security is going to be about that?" 

"That's only more reason to stay here, not less. They'll be combing the halls, and if we go out we're just asking to be found." 

" _Can you diagnose him?_ " 

"No," Combeferre says quietly. "Not likely. Not if it's something more complicated than influenza or hypoglycemia." 

"Then we don't have a choice." Enjolras eases out from beneath Grantaire, reaching for a pillow from the nearest bunk to place beneath his head and protect it from the hard floor. "Or I don't, anyway. I'm taking him. And if I have to do it by myself, then I will." 

Combeferre sighs and looks put-upon, like Enjolras's friendship is going to turn him prematurely grey, which Enjolras supposes is fair. But this is Grantaire, and this is the ship, and he can't sit by and let either suffer. He crouches to catch Grantaire's arm and sling it over his shoulder, and before he can figure out how he's supposed to get so much dead weight upright and through the halls to sickbay, Courfeyrac is on Grantaire's other side, looking uncertain about this whole prospect, but determined to help. 

"Thank you," Enjolras says, and catches his eye. There isn't time to be more effusive than that, but Courfeyrac nods like he understands everything Enjolras would say if given the opportunity. 

"Well," Éponine says, shaking out her shoulders and rolling her neck. "I didn't risk my hide to get him here just to watch him die on our floor. Count me in." She comes forward to help take some of Grantaire's weight. 

Soon enough they've all committed to help, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Even Combeferre, though he looks over them all with a sadness, like he thinks he's about to watch them all hurl themselves out of an airlock and they're asking him to hold the door open for them. 

They don't have time to make plans or try for subterfuge. "Éponine," Enjolras says as he and Courfeyrac support Grantaire's weight between them and the rest crowd around close, helping to obscure Grantaire from the sight of anyone passing by. "Pull up the blueprints, find us a low-traffic way to get to sickbay." 

She nods and pulls her datascreen out, trailing behind them and tapping furiously at the screen as they all make their way out into the hallway. "Left here," she says when they're halfway down the hall. "Through this service corridor." 

They make slow progress. Grantaire's weight is awkward to support and physically demanding to move, and they haven't made it even halfway to sickbay when Enjolras feels a tap on his shoulder and twists to find Combeferre standing beside him, looking solemn. "Let me take him for a while," he says quietly. "You're tiring, and I'm fresh." 

There isn't time to argue or protest. All Enjolras can do is swallow his pride and help Combeferre get Grantaire's arm slung across his shoulders. Once he's settled, on Grantaire's other side, Bahorel makes a similar exchange with Courfeyrac. In a moment they're moving again, a little faster now with fresh legs and arms to carry him. 

They're nearly to sickbay when they come around a corner and everyone at the front of the group freezes, leaving the others to pack in close behind them before they notice that they've stopped. 

"What is going on here?" a sharp voice demands, and Enjolras shuts his eyes as dread sinks through him. Of course they'd run into Security, with the engines stopped and Grantaire's absence surely noticed by now, and Grantaire not exactly inconspicuous among them. He pushes forward toward the front of the group, even as Joly comes forward on his cane and meets the Security guard four strides out from the rest of them. 

"That's far enough, if you please," Joly says, his voice just as sharp, just as authoritative. "This man is severely immunocompromised, we're taking him to sickbay for treatment but I can't have anyone who might be a potential vector getting near him." 

The guard scowls at Joly and jerks himself up to his full height, pulling his shoulders square and his jaw tight. Joly is shorter than him, and frailer, and Enjolras supposes the guard means to be physically intimidating with such a display. "For the security of the entire ship, you will identify yourselves at once. We received no notice of a medical emergency." He gives eyes the group mistrustfully and moves to push past Joly towards them. 

Joly throws his cane out, braced against the opposite side of the hallway and barring the way. The guard pulls himself back and stares at Joly, affronted. "There was no time for sending notices. This man is acutely ill, and I am a sickbay physician. You may check my credentials, if you like," he says, dismissive, sneering. "If I had notified Security of the emergency and waited for the on-call physician to arrive, he might have died. He _still_ might, if you insist on delaying us and keeping him from the treatment he needs. Will you have that on your head?" Joly stares down the guard, who has at least half a foot and fifty pounds of muscle on him, and who hesitates in the face of Joly's righteous fury. 

"The proper procedures must still be followed," the guard says after a moment, stiff and disapproving. For a moment, Enjolras thinks all is lost. "I will report this emergency to Security, as protocol requires." 

"Yes. Do." Enjolras can't see Joly's face, can't see anything but his back, but the sneer in his voice is obvious even from four paces away. "It's certainly a better use of your time than of mine. Now will you let us pass, or will you leave him to die on the ground in front of you?" 

The guard wavers for one more moment before he makes an aggravated sound and gives a sharp gesture that looks like it's meant to wave them on past him. They all remain where they are, though, and the guard's brow starts to furrow until Joly heaves a sigh like he's being put through a trial and he doesn't know what he ever did to deserve the punishment. " _As I said_ , he is severely immunocompromised. Do you know how many bacteria and viruses you spew into the air just by breathing? We cannot pass until you have moved out of our way, so _if you please..._ " 

He glares at them all another moment before he finally relents, stalking down the hall ahead of them as he grabs at his comm. "Medical emergency on delta level," they hear him reporting as the distance between them grows, and his voice fades away. "Physician already in attendance, no action needed..." 

No one moves until he has disappeared down the hall, the sounds of his voice and his comm fading away to silence. Only then does Enjolras dare to breathe. 

"Let's go," Joly says. "With any luck, he'll clear the way for us, but we can't expect that to last long." 

They all resume their progress, hurrying even faster now. The spectre of Security seems to hang over them, compelling Enjolras to glance back over his shoulder with every step. At any moment he expects a throng of Security to appear, to shout for them to stop, to grab Grantaire from them and drag him away where they'll lock and tether him up again, hidden better this time, where they'll never be able to find their way back to him. 

They reach sickbay without further incident. Twice along the way Grantaire goes stiff between Combeferre and Courfeyrac and gives a low groan, and they all stop to check in on him and see if he's rousing, or in distress. But he's no worse -- nor better -- than before, and there's very little any of them can do for him here in the corridor, so they continue on. 

Enjolras has been to sickbay a few times in his life, but not enough to know it. This is Joly's kingdom, and Combeferre's to a lesser extent, and they both move through it with the serene confidence of someone who knows exactly where he is and exactly what he's doing. Joly charges through the sickbay doors like a general before his troops, and the medics and techs inside scramble to rally before him. 

The rest of them wait outside the doors that separate sickbay from the rest of the ship, thick glass panes that let them watch but prevent them from hearing most of the conversation occurring within. Nerves twist in Enjolras's stomach as he's forced to wait to hear if this will work. He strains to hear, but catches only snatches of phrases. "Isolation room," Joly says, and "suspect multiple-organ dysfunction syndrome" and "he'll die", and that's all Enjolras can bear to hear before he retreats, pushing back through the group to Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Grantaire slumped between them, still unconscious. 

"How is he?" Enjolras asks quietly, though there's no need. He can see well enough for himself. 

Courfeyrac gives him a sad, sympathetic look. "Well, he hasn't gotten any worse..." 

"That we're aware of," Combeferre adds, which is not at all comforting, but Enjolras shuts his eyes and nods, appreciating the truth of it. "We can't be sure until we're able to run tests and monitor his vitals." 

Enjolras can't help but come in close in front of Grantaire and press two fingers beneath his jaw, feeling for the reassuring beat of a pulse. It's thready but there, and Enjolras wavers with the sudden impact of the relief that washes over him at that. He's not dead yet. So long as that remains true, there's hope. 

A few interminable minutes later, Joly returns to them, just enough to wave them in through the sickbay doors. "Over there," he directs, ushering the lot of them to a room just inside sickbay, before they're inside long enough or far enough for anyone to catch sight of Grantaire and realize there's more to him than just an ill patient. "We're putting him on a strict isolation protocol. No one comes in without my express approval." He makes himself sound stern as he says it, and Enjolras supposes that's for the benefit of anyone else in sickbay who might overhear their conversation, but all it sounds like to Enjolras is reassurance. They can treat Grantaire without having to worry about being interrupted, about being discovered. 

Enjolras hovers uselessly while Combeferre and Courfeyrac carry Grantaire to the bed inside the isolation room, as they work together to lift him up onto it because he's still limp, dead weight between them. As soon as he's laid out, Courfeyrac backs away, making room for Joly to join Combeferre as they start hooking him up to an array of machines and sensors. 

Enjolras has to turn away, fighting back nausea. The wires coming off of Grantaire look too much like the ones they'd found him bound by. And he knows this isn't the same, he _knows_ it, but it doesn't help the sick sensation in his chest at seeing Grantaire wired into place again, when they worked so hard and risked so much to free him. 

Éponine comes over to him and wraps an arm about his shoulders wordlessly, leaning her weight in against his. He grabs onto her and hugs her tight, presses his face against her shoulder and fights just to breathe. 

"He's going to be okay," she murmurs, patting his back. "He will." 

"You don't know that." Enjolras's words are muffled against her shoulder and the soft fabric of her shirt, but she must understand all the same, because she gives a short huff of laughter. 

"I do. He _has_ to be all right, because we're all depending on him. So he's going to be." 

Enjolras lifts his head and frowns at her. "That isn't the way the world works." 

"No. It's how _we_ work." She tips her head toward the bed, where Combeferre is inserting an IV into one arm while Joly draws blood from the other. "They know the stakes. They're not going to let the whole ship die along with him. So, they'll figure it out, whatever it is, and they'll make it right." 

There's a hardness to Éponine's voice that isn't optimism so much as it is determination, as though if she's only insistent enough then the universe will shape itself to her will and obey. Enjolras hugs her again for that and he can't find it in himself to share her faith, but he murmurs, "I hope you're right," and hopes it's enough. 

When the IV's in, Combeferre starts a drip line, and Enjolras doesn't know what it is they're giving to him, all the rapid back-and-forth between him and Joly is lost to Enjolras, but he can only hope that whatever it is, it will help. It will fix whatever's wrong with Grantaire, and bring him back. 

The initial flurry of activity dies down once the monitors are hooked up and the IV is in. Joly takes the blood samples off to deliver to the lab for testing, and Combeferre listens to the beeping, chirping feedback of the monitors with his head cocked to one side, and Grantaire is in the middle of it all but he looks so lonely, so Enjolras pulls a chair up beside the bed and sinks down into it. He grips Grantaire's hand in his and leans in close enough to say, low and fierce, "Whatever's going on in there, Grantaire, you _fight_ , do you hear me? Fight for yourself, if not for the rest of us. You've only just gained your freedom. I'd like to see you have a chance to actually use it." 

Grantaire doesn't respond. He doesn't rouse to Enjolras's words, doesn't squeeze his hand to show that he's aware and that he heard. There's no change in the readouts on the monitors. 

It doesn't matter. Enjolras keeps gripping Grantaire's hand and he keeps talking to him, because he thinks if he has to hold all this fear and worry in he'll go mad. 

*

Joly brings in bags of blood for transfusions, then draws more samples to take to the lab. Combeferre notes down the readings on the monitors regularly. Someone hangs a bag of something from the IV stand and Enjolras doesn't know if it's saline or if it's medication, but it hardly matters. Nothing's helping. 

Occasionally Joly or Combeferre will murmur to one another and Enjolras will catch a phrase or two. "Vitals stabilizing" and "to prevent shock" and "no sign of neurological damage", and Enjolras supposes all of that should be reassuring. The quiet that descends upon them should be, too. It's better than the flurry of frantic activity when they first arrived, but Enjolras doesn't think that anything is going to comfort him until Grantaire regains consciousness and opens his eyes. 

Halfway through the evening, Enjolras is sleeping, slumped bonelessly in the chair with his hand still on Grantaire's as he succumbs to the heavy weight of exhaustion, when the lights over head flicker and then die, just as all the monitors in the room start screaming an alarm. 

He jolts upright, heart clawing up into his throat as Combeferre and Joly rush in to Grantaire's side. 

"What is it?" Enjolras abandons his chair and moves back against the wall, giving them room to work. "What's happening?" 

"Give us a minute," Combeferre says, and then all his attention is on Grantaire. 

The sudden thrumming of the engines beneath their feet makes half of them gasp, and all of them exchange cautious, hopeful glances with one another. But just as it comes it dies away again, fading to stillness. Two minutes later they start up again, and run for maybe half a minute this time before they die out again. 

Five minutes after that they return, and the vibrations beneath their feet build to a violent rumble like Enjolras has never felt before in all his life. He sinks down into the nearest chair and buries his head in his hands. It feels as though the ship is going to tear itself apart right beneath their feet. 

At the bedside, Joly bites back an oath. "Come on, Grantaire," he murmurs. "Try to keep things steady for us, will you? We can't run our tests or monitor your vitals without power, and we can't figure out what's wrong with you without either of those. Come _on_ , Grantaire, help us out here. _Try._ " 

A minute passes, and two, and the shaking grows. Outside of sickbay, Enjolras hears the muffled sounds of screams and cries, people panicking. He can't blame them. He's afraid, too. 

"The ship isn't built to sustain this," Combeferre says quietly. "I'm going to administer a sedative. Maybe... well. It can't do any _more_ harm." 

Joly nods and Combeferre fills a syringe from a vial. He slides the needle into the vein in Grantaire's arm, depresses the plunger, and almost immediately the vibrations stop getting stronger. A minute after and Enjolras thinks they're starting to ease. 

Five minutes after that they stop entirely once more, but Enjolras is only glad for it. The ship can survive floating aimless in space for much longer than it can bear to be torn apart from the inside by its own engines. 

*

The night wears on, and nothing gets better, but nothing gets drastically worse, either. Still, the power is inconstant, and Joly and Combeferre swear frequently over how much more difficult it's making the diagnosing and treatment. At some point, Éponine makes a sharp sound and flicks her datascreen with a fingertip, mutters, "The wireless is down, how the _fuck_ is the wireless down." 

She makes that same sound again later, and Enjolras rouses himself enough to glance over and see what's happening. She looks wan and colorless in the flickering light coming from her datascreen. She looks grey. "Look at this," she says when she notices Enjolras's attention, and turns the datascreen so he can see. 

The screen is unreadable, full of black lines jittering from one edge to the other. Enjolras has seen that before, in hardware failures or when a machine's programming has become fatally corrupted. When he pulls out his own datascreen and powers it on, he finds it doing the same thing. A quick glance around the room confirms that everyone's are. 

This isn't a single datascreen's hardware gone bad, or a bad line of code that's corrupted a unit. This is everything. This is Grantaire. 

"He's dying," Enjolras breathes, and stares at the motionless form on the bed, just barely visible in the diffuse glow from the datascreens. They've been able to slow it, but they haven't been able to stop it, and whether it happens now or in a week, the end is all the same. He's dying, and he's going to take the rest of them along with him. 

Enjolras drags himself out of his chair and ventures out of the isolation room to look for Combeferre or Joly. He finds them together, standing together before some piece of machinery, Combeferre looking strained while Joly snarls something and swings his cane to hit it against the machine's side. "Stupid, useless piece of equipment," he's saying when Enjolras reaches their side. "Why do we even keep you around if you're not going to work when we _need_ you." 

Enjolras clears his throat quietly to announce his presence. "It's not working?" 

Joly turns, looking haggard. He braces his cane on the floor again and leans heavily upon it. Enjolras looks at him and is reminded that he's being going just as long as any of the rest of them have, and with less rest and more responsibility. He and Combeferre both have. 

"We'll fix it," he says, quiet and determined, meeting Enjolras's gaze and holding it. "We have to have these test results to figure out our next step, but we'll make it work. We have to." 

"It might not be up to you," Enjolras says, and shows him his malfunctioning datascreen. "The machines are connected to the ship's AI just the same as everything else is, right?" He's careful, out here where there are medics and other patients to overhear, to say _ship's AI_ and not _Grantaire_ , but Joly understands it well enough, and his eyes go wide with realization at the same time that Combeferre takes a sharp breath, and then brings a hand up to rub at his forehead. 

"What is it?" Combeferre asks. 

"The datascreens are malfunctioning. All of them, or at least, all of ours." Enjolras looks at Joly asks him quietly, "What does it mean?" 

Joly shakes his head. "I don't know. But nothing good, I'm sure of that." 

"If we can't run tests," Combeferre says, "and we can't access the computers, that doesn't leave us with much." 

Joly's jaw tightens, a fierce, determined glint in his eye. "We still have our hands. And we have our knowledge." He shifts his grip on his cane and starts back toward the isolation room. "It's just going to have to be enough." 

Enjolras and Combeferre follow after him. Combeferre doesn't look nearly so sure as Joly sounds, and Enjolras feels even less so. How are they supposed to do anything without diagnostic tests? They're flying blind, and Grantaire is _dying_. 

Joly precedes them into the isolation room, and freezes two strides in, tension rippling down his back. "This is an _isolation room_ ," he snarls, his words violent, furious, and Enjolras is instantly on alert. "Get out before you put my patient at any further risk than you already have, or I'll have you removed." 

"You really don't want to do that," says a voice that sends alarm singing through Enjolras's nerves. He pushes forward, past Joly. 

The Security tech they met before, the one who liked Grantaire's smile, is standing at the foot of Grantaire's bed. All the others who were already in the room are clustered around him, trying to shield or defend him. 

Her gaze lights on Enjolras when he comes forward, and then sparks. She had been kind before, or maybe just weary or bored with her job. But now, she's livid, and she stalks toward Enjolras with menace in every step. "You _stupid son of a bitch._ What the hell did you think you were doing?" 

Combeferre puts himself in front of Enjolras before the tech can reach him. Courfeyrac is at his side before Enjolras has even registered that he's moved from Grantaire's bed, both of them standing firm, braced for a fight. 

The tech doesn't pay them any notice, just stares straight past them at Enjolras as though they aren't even there. "You're killing him, you know." 

She's _Security_. Enjolras doesn't owe her any explanations at all, but that last strikes too close to home. Enjolras bristles before he can stop himself, pushes past his friends and snarls in her face, "We're trying to _save_ him." 

"Really." She raises one brow, scornful, dismissive. "How's that working out for you?" 

Enjolras doesn't have an answer. She gives him a moment to let that sink in, then turns her gaze onto Joly. "You're the physician here, I assume?" She doesn't wait for his nod of confirmation. "He needs a cocktail of benzochlorodeine, ethylphetaproximol, neuradrol, coproxolin--" 

Joly stiffens as though she struck him. "You're not a doctor," he says, stiff, furious and insulted. "And there are absolutely no indications for any of those medications." 

"You're right, I'm not a doctor. I'm Security." She stalks right up to Joly. She's half a foot shorter than he is and slender as a whip, but she glares as though she'll take him down, and everyone else in the room along with him. "And I've known and been learning about him my entire life, whereas you didn't even know he existed until a few weeks ago. So who do you think knows better what medications he does and doesn't need? _Give him the drugs._ " 

"I can't just prescribe based on your say-so, and if you think the fact that you're Security holds any weight here at all--" 

"Oh, for fuck's sake." She spins away from them, stalks over to the cabinet in the wall filled with vials and bottles of pills, grabs a handful down and starts filling syringes. "You're killing him, and we'll all go with him. I would really very much prefer _not_ to die, so you might try trusting me, just a little." She grabs up the filled syringes and starts toward Grantaire. 

Joly starts toward her, but Combeferre is faster and reaches her first, grabs her by the wrist as she moves to uncap the first needle. "If you think we're just going to stand by while you dose him with heaven-knows-what--" 

"Let her," Enjolras says, hoarse, shaking where he has his back pressed to the wall. 

Joly and Combeferre both turn to stare at him. 

He makes a helpless gesture. "Like she said. If he dies, there's no hope for any of the rest of us. If she kills him, she's killing herself. I don't think she's the sort." And she hadn't reported them to Security when she'd found them, the first time. She'd been kind, in a way. She'd liked Grantaire's smile. Enjolras doesn't think she was lying about that. "Nothing else we've been doing has been helping. Let her try." 

Joly stares her down, unmoving. "Explain why he needs these medications first. Help us understand." 

She makes a sharp, aggravated sound and tries to push past them both to get to Grantaire, but Combeferre's hand whips out, catching her by the arm and holding her back. She spins around to face them both again, her eyes blazing. "Haven't you heard a thing I've said? There's _no time._ You want explanations, fine. But let me treat him _first_ , so he doesn't die while you're having your curiosity satisfied." 

There's a fraught moment in which nobody moves and everybody, it seems, is glaring at one another. Combeferre breaks it, finally, snatches the syringes out of her hand. "You're not a trained medical professional," he says, stiff and displeased. "You're not touching him. _I'll_ administer the medications." There's a warning to his words, an unspoken, _And if this harms him in any way, you'll have me to answer to._

She relinquishes the syringes, holds her hands up with her palms out and bites out, "Fine. Just _give them to him_." 

Enjolras can't stop shaking as Combeferre carries the syringes to the bedside and lays them out in a neat row. Joly is at his side with antiseptic wipes before he even needs to ask for them, and Combeferre makes quick work of rolling up Grantaire's sleeve, prepping the skin, and administering the shots, one by one. 

Enjolras doesn't expect the treatment to have an immediate effect, not really. Still, as the seconds tick by and turn to minutes and Grantaire doesn't even stir, his trembling grows until it's uncontrollable. He waits until Combeferre and Joly have finished and bandaged Grantaire up, tucked him carefully back beneath his blankets, before Enjolras turns to face the Security tech squarely. "All right." His voice shakes, too, but it doesn't make him sound weak. It makes him sound dangerous. "Now, you owe us explanations. Who the hell are you?" 

She shakes out her shoulders and pulls herself up straight. "My name is Floreal," she says, "and I suppose you deserve answers. It's going to take some time, though, so you might as well all make yourselves comfortable, and I'll tell you everything I know."


	9. Chapter 9

They all gather around, get comfortable, and wait for Floreal to give her explanations. She stands at the foot of the bed looking at Grantaire's motionless form, her brows furrowing and her mouth pulled into an unhappy curve, and for long minutes she doesn't speak. 

"Perhaps," Joly says, gentler than Enjolras expects, gentler than Enjolras would have been, "you might start by explaining the medications you just had us give to him." 

Floreal takes a breath and squares her shoulders, turning about to face Joly. She leans back against the foot of the bed, reaches her hands back behind her to grip its edge. "Did you really think you could disconnect him without complications? Did you think a man could be a ship's brain and nervous system without needing medications to smooth the way?" 

"Of course not." Joly is frowning, affronted. "We gave him the medications required for cybernetic augmentations--" 

"Oh, stars above." Floreal moves around to the side of the bed and sinks down onto it, eyes squeezed shut in a grimace and shaking her head. She lifts her hands as though she means to pull them through her hair, but aborts the motion and drops them back into her lap again. "And here I nearly convinced myself not to come look for you lot. Do you even realize-- You are all _so stupid._ " 

"This isn't helpful," Enjolras snaps from where he's sitting on Grantaire's bed, cross-legged up by his shoulders and holding Grantaire's hand in his lap, fingers wrapped around his wrist and pressed to his pulse point so he can feel the second there's any change in his condition. "You said you were going to explain. Berating us isn't explaining a thing." 

"Fine, then." She opens her eyes and glares at him. "I'll _explain_ why you all are idiots. He--" She throws a hand out, indicating Grantaire. "He is not cybernetically enhanced." 

"Don't fucking condescend to us," Éponine snarls. "Of course he is. Have you _seen_ him?" She gestures to her own face, the sides of her neck, all of the places on Grantaire where the circuitry can be seen coursing along his skin. "We know what god damn cybernetics look like. Not to mention the part where he controls the ship. Don't try to tell us he was born that way." 

"He _is_ the ship," Floreal snaps. "It's not the same thing. And of course he wasn't born like this. He was made this way." She brings her hands up to her brow momentarily, rubbing there briefly before she drops them back to her lap and twists to be able to catch Éponine and Enjolras's eyes both together. "You two are the computer whizzes in the group, right? That's what your files say, anyway. So tell me, how much data do you think this ship generates in a year? How much over the centuries that we've been flying?" 

"A lot," Enjolras says quietly. "Too much to count." 

Floreal sends him a brief, amused look. "It's countable. But you're close enough to the point. _A lot._ And how much space do you think it would take to store all that data? Where do you suppose we have room for it?" 

Éponine starts to reply, drawing a breath and opening her mouth to speak, but then she stops without making a sound. Her mouth closes and her brow furrows, and Enjolras suspects she's thinking the same thing he is -- that all that data would take massive amounts of space to store, and that they have the blueprints for the whole ship now, and that there isn't any unused space available for that amount of storage. They'd thought to find it in the void, but with the blueprints that Grantaire supplied to them they know better now. 

"Now you have it." Floreal looks fierce and delighted. "So what do you do, when you discover you're running out of space for all your storage drives, and you're only a few years into a voyage that's meant to take generations, and you know the space that's needed will only increase exponentially as the years go on? What do you do, when you haven't the room but the information you're storing is vital and you can't purge any of it?" 

"You compress the data," Enjolras says. 

Éponine says, "You find a more compact means of storage." 

"Yes. Precisely." Floreal drops her gaze, pulling at a snagged thread in the blanket covering Grantaire, her fingers worrying at it as she says very quietly, "Did you know, the human genome can pack as much as an exabyte or two of data into a single gram of DNA?" 

Enjolras stares at her, trying to sort through the meaning of that information, the implications of it. He's getting there, fighting his way past the disbelief and the immediate denial of _no, that can't be, that's impossible_ , but Éponine gets there first, and takes a sharp breath. 

"He isn't connected to the computer," Éponine says quietly. 

Floreal meets her gaze and there's something fierce and approving burning there. "No." 

"He _is_ the computer." 

"Now you have it." 

Éponine sits back, pulling her hands through her hair, her mouth gaping open. "You-- You co-opted his genes, his _DNA_ , to store your data? That's horrific!" 

"There are those who might debate you over that," Floreal says quietly, her gaze dropped, and Enjolras notices that she doesn't seem to include herself amongst those ranks, or else she'd have gone straight to the debate, wouldn't she? She wouldn't still be worrying at the blanket, or looking anywhere but at the rest of them, or burning a flush bright across her cheeks, if she believed in the justice and necessity of what was done to Grantaire. "But it's all beside the point now, anyway. Whether he ought to be or not, he _is_ the ship." 

"But," Joly says, coming towards them a few strides, his brows creased into a heavy frown. "The human genome is an incredibly delicate system. One little genetic flaw and the whole equilibrium is thrown off. How can you insert that much new genetic material into someone's DNA but keep the body from trying to interpret it? How do you keep it from spreading through his system like a cancer, destroying bodily functions as it goes?" 

Floreal picks up one of the emptied syringes and taps the side of the chamber with a fingernail. "With a great amount of very powerful medications, that's how. Medications that he hasn't been receiving since you absconded with him." 

Enjolras bristles. "We _freed_ him. It's what he wanted." 

"Does he look free to you right now?" She gives the wires and leads connecting to every limb of Grantaire's body a significant glance. "Does he look content?" 

"He didn't tell us," Joly says, frowning. 

"He didn't know. Or didn't remember, more like," she adds as everyone, absolutely everyone in the room goes still and intent and focused on her. She focuses on Enjolras. "I told you, he agreed to this. He volunteered for it." 

"I would very much like to see those interviews and evaluations you told me about," Enjolras says, cold. 

She gives him a long look and then flinches and drops her gaze. "Not here." 

"Why the devil not--" 

That gets her gaze up again, her eyes blazing. "Everything's down just now, or hadn't you noticed? I'm not going to be able to access anything until he's stable, and that's going to take time." 

"How long?" 

She lets out a sharp, explosive breath of air. "How am I supposed to know that? I'm a tech, not a physician. I only know the medications he needs because I service the machinery that delivers it, if it weren't for that you'd still be scrambling, and he'd still be dying, and the rest of us right along with him." 

"The fact of the matter is--" Combeferre starts, but is interrupted by a chorus of beeps and chimes throughout the room. Enjolras looks first to the machinery hooked up to and monitoring Grantaire, fearful, but everyone else is pulling out their datascreens, frowning at them, tapping at them. 

Éponine speaks first, says, "The wireless is back," and looks up at Enjolras, her face bright with joy and relief. "That has to be a good sign, right?" 

Enjolras pulls his own datascreen out and powers it on. It chimes just as the others' had, displaying a series of incoming message alerts that come from nowhere and are full of gibberish, just random strings of characters as though someone had been slamming their fist against a keyboard. 

_That_ isn't exactly reassuring, but Grantaire was -- _is_ , still, he reminds himself -- very near death and if he sent the messages in a burst of confusion before Floreal told them the right medications to give, it might mean nothing at all. And as Éponine said -- the return of the wireless signal seems a promising sign. 

Enjolras slips his datascreen back into his pocket and moves to the head of the bed. The others slide away, making room for him as he crouches and grips Grantaire's hand. "Grantaire?" he says quietly. "R?" 

There's a long moment filled with nothing but the quiet sounds of everyone's breathing. And then Grantaire's fingers twitch in Enjolras's hand, an aborted movement like he meant to clasp it in return but never finished the thought. It's the greatest sign of life they've seen from him in hours, and it's all Enjolras can do not to drop down onto the floor right there by the bedside and weep with relief. 

"That's it." He lifts Grantaire's hand between them and clasps it in both of his hands. "Come on, wake up. You gave us quite a scare." 

It takes several more minutes of coaxing and waiting and Enjolras's heart trying to burst out of his chest at every tiny movement of Grantaire's fingers or flicker of expression across his face before Grantaire manages to blink his eyes open. His gaze slides around the room before it lands on Enjolras and fixes there. Enjolras grips his hand tight and just stares at him, too overcome to speak. 

Grantaire wets his lips, works his jaw like it's been weeks since he spoke, not hours. Finally manages to say, "I gave _you_ a scare?" in a voice that's a rasp, but still dry with humor. 

Enjolras lets out an explosive breath of air and presses his face against the bed, shaking with relief. "You did." 

"Imagine how I felt," Grantaire says, droll, and then breaks off coughing. 

"This is all very heartwarming," Floreal says, dry, coming forward to stand at the bedside with her arms crossed and her brows pinched. "But Grantaire-- that's what you like to be called, right?" 

Grantaire nods, a small, sharp movement, like even that is difficult, or painful. He frowns a little as he looks at her, and tips his head to the side as though in thought. "I've seen you before, haven't I? Back, before." His breathing hitches. Enjolras tightens his hand on Grantaire's, ready to back Floreal out of the room with physical force if that's what it takes to keep her from upsetting Grantaire. But before he can, Grantaire pushes himself a little upright in the bed and leans toward her. "You're the one who found us. The one with the lights. You said you liked my smile. Right?" 

Floreal lifts her hands like she means to make a gesture, then flounders and drops them, stares at Grantaire like she's taken aback. "Well," she says faintly, and a hint of a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth. "It's nice to have you remember me for once, I must say. Yes, that was me. But this was all very foolish, you must know. You're only alive now -- _all of us_ are only alive now -- because I happened to suspect what happened when you went missing, and who was responsible for it, and because I happen to know the drug regimen you've been on. I know enough to save your life, but not enough to keep you stable going forward. I don't know the dosages of the medications you've been receiving or anything, and I don't know how it'll affect you, or the rest of the ship, to have your levels bouncing up and down every time you receive a dose and every time it starts to wear off, instead of the real-time administration keeping you at a constant, steady state. It could kill you, and the rest of us along with you. You've made your point, now don't you think it would better for everyone, _safer_ for everyone, if you let us reconnect you to the intravenous--" 

Whatever else Floreal means to say is lost, drowned out beneath the sudden clamor of every voice in the room, everyone shouting their protest of that idea. 

"No." Grantaire doesn't shout, but his voice rises above everyone else's, cuts through and leaves them all silent in his wake. He stares at Floreal, and he may be bedridden and only recently returned from death's door, but the power in that gaze is enough even to make Enjolras catch his breath. "No, you're not hooking me back up to anything." 

Her expression twists with frustration. "I can speak to them, make a case for you to keep the wireless. You won't have to be tethered like before, you can keep your freedom, just let me--" 

"No." 

She breaks off, her mouth pressing into a flat, unhappy line. "Even if your freedom kills you?" 

"Make a list of the medications. We can sort the rest out ourselves. They have a physician, and I'll find the logs with my medical record, and between the two we'll figure out the dosage and medication schedule that I need." 

Floreal's mouth goes tighter, pulling at the corners. Her gaze slides away and she tightens her arms around her ribs. "You're not going to find your medical record." 

"It has to be stored _somewhere_ , they must have a record--" 

"They do, and it is. But it won't be stored anywhere you can access. They've got servers -- old school, silicon-based, they're bulky as hell but they don't need much room. They only need enough to store the things they've decided it would be dangerous for you to know." 

" _Dangerous?_ " That's Combeferre, looking thunderous. "I think we've proven well enough that it's the ignorance that's the danger. 

"That's why." Éponine grabs on to Enjolras's arm, not trying to get his attention, just needing an anchor in the wake of her excitement. "The information he didn't have, about the planets. That's why he didn't know we've been passing up perfectly viable homes for generations now. They've kept it from him just as much as from us, those Security bastards." 

" _What?_ " Floreal spins around and stares at Éponine, as fixed and horrified as if she'd suddenly grown three heads. "What did you say?" 

"Oh, you heard me," Éponine snaps over her shoulder. "The planet we're leaving behind, all indications are it's viable. Or at least worth of a probe to find out more, but there are no records of any being sent. You're Security, don't expect me to believe this is news to you." She turns back to Enjolras, her gaze eager and avid. "If we can find those servers, if we can get our hands on that information..." 

He covers Éponine's hand and squeezes it. He knows. That information could mean everything. And they have to find it. For Grantaire, for the ship, for everyone. 

He doesn't realize that Floreal has backed away from them until she speaks and her voice comes from behind him instead of right at his ear. "I have to go." Her voice is tight and quick. "I-- Don't do anything stupid. _Don't let him die._ I found you here, I can find you again if I have to." 

She gropes behind herself until she finds the handle of the door, wrenches it open and is gone before anyone could try to speak up and stop her, though Enjolras doubts any of them intended to. Joly goes to the door to check it's shut, then fastens the lock so they won't suffer any more unwanted interruptions. When he turns back, his gaze is focused solely on Grantaire. "Sit up for me, if you will," he says as he makes his way back to the bed. "Now that you're conscious, I'd like to do a complete examination, for comparison's sake." 

Grantaire looks unenthused by that prospect, but he allows it, carefully sitting upright in the bed while Enjolras and Courfeyrac help, and Combeferre adjusts the bed to sit upright and provide support. 

It's not a quick process, and filled with two many silences while Combeferre listens for his pulse, for his blood pressure, to his lungs. Combeferre's face is thoughtful, solemn, and it's all Enjolras can do not to read bad news into every twitch of his mouth and press of his lips. 

When he finally sits back and drapes the stethoscope around his neck, Enjolras doesn't dare to breathe. "Your vitals aren't where we'd like them to be, not yet, but they're stabilizing. It's progress. Your lungs are clear and your heart sounds good. You're hardly well yet, but you haven't had the medication in your system long, either. We'll do another round of blood work to confirm that everything's getting back to working how it should. You're not out of the woods yet, but you're headed in the right direction." 

Grantaire nods, says, "Thank you," and then braces his hands on the bed and swings his legs over the edge. 

"That is unwise," Combeferre says, at the same time that Éponine snaps, "Don't be stupid, you're not going anywhere," and Enjolras grips his hand and only scarcely manages to fight off the urge to drag him bodily back onto the bed. 

"You're still recovering," he says, stern, unyielding. "You're not in any shape to be moving about right now." Joly hums and nods his agreement as he prods Grantaire's legs back up onto the bed with the end of his cane. 

"Weren't you listening to anything she said?" Grantaire's voice is pitched to everyone, but his gaze is on Enjolras. "If she means to go off and rally Security and bring them down on us in full force, we'd be idiots to stay." 

"It would be even more foolish to leave," Joly says pointedly. "We need the monitors here. We need the equipment." 

"I'm not going to let them wire me back up again." 

"Grantaire," Enjolras says quietly. 

Grantaire turns to look at him, his eyes burning with the weight of their intensity. _"I'm not."_ He says it so fiercely it's almost a snarl, and Enjolras believes him. 

"She didn't tell Security the first time she found us. She didn't run off and summon them when she found you here just now. I don't think she intends to." It's a risk, it's a big risk. But the bigger one seems to be letting Grantaire out of the bed and the isolation room before they're sure he's stable enough and strong enough for it. "No one's asking you to let yourself be wired back in. You know we'd fight to keep you from that." 

The ferocity of Grantaire's expression eases some. He inches his hand across the bed until his fingers graze Enjolras's, then leaves it there, the both of them just barely touching. "I know," he says. 

"Stay, please." Enjolras swallows down the knot in his throat. "Rest. Trust us to protect you." 

Grantaire sighs, and he doesn't sound happy about it, but he lets himself sink deeper into the mattress. "I do trust you." His throat works in silence for a moment, his brows creasing. "Until the blood work comes back," he says at length, his words heavy with finality. "If the results still show improvement, then we go back to the barracks." 

"With medical approval," Joly says, his voice just as firm and uncompromising. "If we still think there's risk and you need to be monitored further, then you'll listen to your physicians and do as we say." 

Grantaire frowns, but nods. 

"In that case..." Combeferre clears his throat as he gets to his feet. "We'd better stack the deck in our favor, and give you the chance to rest until it's time for your next labs." He glances around at the others and tips his head toward the door. "We'll be just outside." 

Everyone else rises or straightens from where they've been sitting or leaning, stretching the kinks out of their backs and moving toward the door. Enjolras, though, doesn't move a muscle, not even when Joly turns back in the doorway, leaning hard on his cane, and gives him a look of deep disapproval. "He needs quiet, Enjolras. He needs rest." 

Grantaire's breath hitches. He slides his hand across the sheet, covering more of Enjolras's with his own. Enjolras turns his hand over and threads his fingers through Grantaire's, reassuring him. "He's been alone for generations," Enjolras says quietly. "I don't think more solitude is what he needs right now." He looks down at Grantaire. "I'll leave if you want me to." 

Grantaire's breathing comes hard and sharp. "Please don't." 

Enjolras nods, closes his fingers through Grantaire's, and meets Joly's gaze. "I won't get him riled up, I promise." 

"If you do, you'll have me to answer to," Joly says ominously, then retreats from the isolation room and shuts the door solidly behind himself. 

The room feels empty without all the others crowding into it. Silence descends upon them, broken only by the regular, rhythmic beeping of Grantaire's monitors. It's a comforting beat, reassurance that Grantaire is awake, is alive, is recovering. 

"Thank you," Grantaire says quietly, breaking the silence. When Enjolras glances up at him, he's looking away, studying the weave of the blanket spread over him. 

"What in heaven's name are you thanking me for?" 

Grantaire's lips twitch, a hint of a smile. "For saving my life. For staying. For any number of things." 

"I didn't save your life. You can thank Combeferre or Joly for that, or Floreal, more directly. I didn't do anything but sit here and hope." 

"It still matters." 

Enjolras makes a face, curls his fingers tighter through Grantaire's. "I didn't--" 

"The accepted social convention is to say you're welcome, I think." 

Enjolras pulls himself up, frowns at him. "What?" 

Grantaire gives him a look like he's being deliberately obtuse. "Say you're welcome, Enjolras." 

All the air rushes from Enjolras's lungs at once. When he speaks, the words are thin and feeble. "You're welcome." This time, he's the one to look away. He sweeps his thumb over the back of Grantaire's hand and watches as it bumps over each knuckle. "I don't know how you're able to be so brave, in the face of all this." 

Grantaire makes a small sound, like he's been punched. That, at least, is more than Enjolras can ignore. He looks up, finds Grantaire frowning at him, looking puzzled. "You don't think you're brave?" 

"I'm not the one who volunteered to give up my life to become a computer -- an _actual_ computer, stars, Grantaire, I can't believe you didn't tell me, I thought you were just the ship's AI -- or who endured it for generations, or who had the strength and the courage to risk my own life to get free of it." 

Grantaire's puzzlement doesn't ease. He tilts his head and looks at Enjolras like maybe the new angle will make things come into a clearer picture. "You saved me." 

Enjolras shakes his head hard. "I didn't, I hardly did anything, everyone else--" 

"Everyone else helped. You led. I see more than you think I do, I expect." 

Enjolras starts to speak, then shuts his mouth without a sound. "Yes," he says at last. "I suspect you do." But he can't claim the credit for doing any of this, not when the most he can be charitably said to have done is to bring the issue to everyone else's attention and get the ball rolling. He stops sweeping his thumb across Grantaire's knuckles and holds onto his hand tighter instead, staring at the contrast of Grantaire's skin against his own. "I'm very glad you didn't die," he says, unsteady. 

Grantaire says nothing for a long moment, but the steady beep of his monitors trips and comes a little bit faster, then a little faster still. 

Enjolras tips his head up and looks at the read-out on the monitors' screen, the jumping spikes that are Grantaire's pulse. He looks down at where their hands are joined and carefully disentangles his fingers from Grantaire's, ignoring his small sound of unhappiness when the connection between them is broken. "Enjolras," he says, like it's a prelude to something. 

Enjolras swallows and pulls his hands off of the bed, lacing his fingers together to resist the urge to reach back out for Grantaire again. "Joly or Combeferre will come back in here if they hear that. And they won't let me stay if they think I'm upsetting you, or keeping you from your rest." 

"You aren't upsetting me." 

Enjolras smiles a little and risks looking at him. "I'm glad. But you do need your rest." 

Grantaire looks mutinous. 

"You want out of that bed, don't you? They won't let you if they think you aren't recovering well enough." 

Grantaire sighs and pulls his hand back, so it no longer looks quite so much like he's reaching out for Enjolras. The rhythm of his pulse on the monitor slows, stabilizes. 

Enjolras tips back into his seat. He's exhausted, run down from the long days of preparation and the even longer hours of worry and fear, and he knows it's just as important for the rest of them to rest up as it is for Grantaire, if they're going to be any use to him at all. The steady beep of Grantaire's pulse lulls him, urging him to relax, if not to sleep. He's not sure he _can_ sleep, not with concern still twisting through him, but with the healthy beat of Grantaire's pulse as a lullaby, Enjolras lets go of his tension enough to drift, and to rest.


	10. Chapter 10

Enjolras wakes to the rising brightness of the lights against his eyelids. For a delirious moment he thinks it's Grantaire, raising the lights in fear of being seen, and he squeezes his eyes shut in instinct to reassure him. But there's the low murmur of a voice that isn't panicked, isn't Grantaire's, and after a few frantic heartbeats Enjolras recognizes Joly's voice, the unique rhythm to his gait caused by his cane and his prosthetic, his voice pitched low and reassuring as he says, "You'll feel a small pinch..." 

And a quiet gasp, closer to Enjolras, that has him sitting up and opening his eyes despite the uncomfortable glare of the isolation room's lights. Grantaire's propped half-upright in the bed, his arm stretched out and a blue tourniquet tied around it, a needle in his arm as Joly fills a series of vials with Grantaire's blood. 

Enjolras reaches out to grip Grantaire's other hand. He jumps a little, making Joly cluck his tongue, and turns his head towards Enjolras. He smiles a little, brief and lost beneath a grimace as Joly changes out a full vial for an empty one. 

"Are you all right?" 

"Your faith is touching," Joly says, dry, but with a curve to his mouth to show he's not entirely insulted by the question. 

"I'm fine," Grantaire says. "It was just a pinch, like he said." 

His words are meant to be reassuring, but Enjolras remembers what he said back in the barracks, about being unaccustomed to pain. Even a small discomfort could be distressing, when you're not used to any. 

Joly withdraws the needle and presses gauze to the site. Enjolras has to release Grantaire's hand so he can reach to press on it while Joly gathers the test tubes and wraps a bandage around Grantaire's arm. "All right," he says as he shifts them to the hand on his bad side, so he can grab his cane with the other. "Combeferre and I will run tests on these and--" 

"And then I can leave," Grantaire says, eager, adamant. 

Joly fixes him with a stern look. "And then, if your numbers are still improving, we can _discuss_ discharging you." 

Grantaire relents with little more than a mutinous scowl and a grudging nod. Already he's coming to know Joly, learning his moods and when he can be pushed, and when pressure will only make him entrench himself deeper. 

Enjolras reaches for Grantaire's hand again, squeezes it again, and smiles at him when it brings Grantaire's attention back around to him once more. "How do you feel?" 

Grantaire lets out a sharp breath and settles back against the raised head of the bed. "Better, I think. I mean, I'm not dying, so definitely better." 

"Good," Enjolras says, swallowing back the tide of relief that threatens to undo him. "I'm going to go see if I can get one of them to give me an estimate on when we can expect those results." 

Grantaire's smile is brighter, shining with relief. "Thank you." 

Most of the others are standing or leaning or dozing against the wall just beyond the door, when Enjolras steps out of the isolation room. He gives his friends brief smiles and a touch to the shoulder or arm as he makes his way past them, into the sickbay proper, where Combeferre and Joly are standing together before an array of machines. 

Combeferre glances back to him first -- alerted, no doubt, by some nearly-inaudible sound Enjolras made or the vibrations of his steps through the sickbay floor. Joly notices Combeferre's wandering attention a moment later, and turns to follow his gaze. 

"How long was I out for?" Enjolras asks first. His head feels stuffed with cotton, his body slow and lethargic in the way that he usually associates with either entirely too much or nowhere near enough sleep. 

"A few hours," Combeferre tells him, and Enjolras grunts, unsure which category that falls into. "Do you feel better?" 

"Not particularly." Enjolras comes up to stand between the both of them, looking at the complicated spread of electronics and robotics before them. There's a breath of quiet between the three of them before Enjolras breaks it to ask, "How long until the test results are ready?" 

"An hour, at a minimum," Joly says. 

Enjolras turns to stare at him. "An hour? So long? Can't you do it faster? An hour's a long time when we already have Security breathing down our necks." 

Joly's mouth presses to a thin line. "Fifteen minutes for the serum samples to fully clot, another fifteen to separate in the centrifuge. Half an hour for the test itself. I can't make biology or chemistry work faster, no matter how much of a hurry we're in. An hour, minimum, and those are faster results than anyone else in sickbay can expect." He lets out a long breath, and his shoulders slump by the end of it. He shifts his cane to his bad side so he can reach out and grasp Enjolras's elbow, his grip solid and sure. "We are doing everything we can for him out here. Please, just trust us, and let us work." 

Enjolras grimaces and nods, feeling chastened. He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, and Joly's grip gentles. When Enjolras drops his hand and meets his eye, there's sympathy on his face, rather than frustration. 

"Go on back," he says gently. "You'll only be counting the minutes out here, and that won't make the time pass any faster. And as you said -- he's had more than his fair share of loneliness." 

Enjolras nods, grateful for the excuse, and leaves them both to return to the isolation room. Just outside the door, Courfeyrac catches him, fingers wrapped around Enjolras's ankle because Courfeyrac's sitting half cross-legged, half sprawled on the floor. 

Enjolras stops before momentum carries him forward far enough to trip, turns back and crouches down when Courfeyrac releases him. 

"How is he?" Courfeyrac asks, watching Enjolras's face closely. 

Enjolras lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Awake. Not dying. You'll have to ask Joly and Combeferre for more detail than that, once their tests are finished running." 

Courfeyrac hums a low note that could mean anything. His eyes are still on Enjolras, searching his face, though Enjolras couldn't begin to guess for what. "You're going back in?" 

Enjolras nods. 

Courfeyrac nods once, like he already knew the answer but was only awaiting confirmation. "Be careful," he says quietly, and pats Enjolras on the cheek. "Just...be careful." 

Enjolras frowns. "I'm not going to hurt him. You have to know I wouldn't." 

Courfeyrac gapes a moment, just a little, like Enjolras has taken him by surprise, and then he gives a quiet laugh and shakes his head. "I'm not worried about _that_." 

"Then what--" 

"Just-- Go on. Go be with him." He waits until Enjolras rises to his feet and then pats his calf, making shooing gestures toward the isolation room door. 

Enjolras goes, because he'd rather be in there than out in the hall with Courfeyrac being indecipherable. When he opens the door and slips inside, Grantaire pushes himself up so he's sitting straighter, his gaze sharp and keen on Enjolras. "What did they say?" 

Enjolras gives him a rueful smile and shakes his head. "I got a lecture about the futility of trying to hurry along biology. There's no rushing them." 

Some of the light in Grantaire's eyes dies. He settles back, leaning against the raised head of the bed. "How long?" 

"An hour." Enjolras climbs up onto the bed with him, because it's wide enough for them both if they sit close, and because it feels too far, sitting in the chair with half the width of the bed between them, having to lean forward and stretch to reach. He sits next to Grantaire, steals a pillow to prop behind his back so he's at less of a reclining angle, and crosses his legs so his knee and thigh press into Grantaire's, solid and reassuring. He steals Grantaire's hand and grips it tight on his lap, and Grantaire shoots him a sidelong glance that curves the corners of his mouth. 

"An hour's not so bad," Grantaire says, and threads his fingers through Enjolras's. "I can wait an hour." 

"Are you tired?" Enjolras turns Grantaire's hand over in his. His eyes trace the dark lines of veins beneath his skin, cutting across the brighter lines made by the circuitry inlaid above it. "Do you want to sleep?" 

Grantaire gives a choked laugh and a quick, sharp shake of his head. "Stars, no. That's all of done since you freed me, one way or another. I don't want to sleep, I want to _live_." 

Enjolras skims his fingers over the inside of Grantaire's wrist, where the skin is very thin and very soft. He tells himself he's not seeking the reassurance of a pulse. "You're going to have to resign yourself to sleeping more than you're used to, I expect. You're going to be placing higher demands upon your body now that you're out. Now that you're not trapped in that room. You'll need more sleep to compensate." 

Grantaire frowns. He closes his hand into a fist, cradled in the palm of Enjolras's hand. Tendons stand out on his wrist at the strain and Enjolras traces his fingers along those, too, trying to soothe. "The ship needs access to my drives and memory banks in order to function. I can't sleep away a third of my life and still perform my function." 

Enjolras releases his hand, slipping it up to hook his arm through Grantaire's and using the gesture to pull him in so he's leaning against Enjolras's side, both of them pressed together from shoulder to knee. "Your life support functions are wired into your autonomic nervous system, that's what Combeferre said. The ship won't plummet out of the sky while you sleep, anymore than you'll stop breathing, or your heart will stop beating. You have to rest, R. We need you strong. We all do." 

Grantaire lets out an unsteady breath and turns his face in against Enjolras's shoulder. "Not right now," he says, low, pleading. "I'm not tired. I don't want to sleep through this." 

Enjolras nods and pats his arm where it's linked through his. "Not right now," he agrees quietly. "We'll find some other way to pass the time." 

*

An hour later, Combeferre and Joly come into the isolation room, both of them looking resigned, in their own way, and that's all Enjolras needs to know that the news is good. He grips Grantaire's hand without thinking about it, and Grantaire looks between them and him, his expression growing troubled. "What is it?" His breath goes ragged and unsteady. "The results are good, they have to be. I'm feeling better!" 

"They're good," Enjolras says, quietly, fiercely delighted. And he hold's Joly's gaze, daring him to contradict him. 

Joly sighs, and then smiles a little, and all the tension drains from Grantaire at once. "They're good," he confirms, and leans hard against the bed when he gets to it. He reaches out to pat Grantaire's ankle beneath the thin blanket. "You're still improving. The drugs are working." And there's a note of chagrin there, that Grantaire wouldn't catch but that Enjolras recognizes because they've known one another for years. He can guess its cause well enough -- Joly isn't accustomed to abject failure in his treatment of a patient, much less in having some untrained Security tech sweep in and fix everything. 

Grantaire sits upright, pushing at Enjolras until he slides off the bed and stands beside it, so Grantaire can swing his legs over the side. His fingers curl around the edge of the mattress as he stares at Joly. "That means I can leave, right? That's what you said, if the numbers were good, if I was still improving--" 

"That we'd _consider_ it," Combeferre says, and Grantaire has a moment to somehow look both mutinous and crestfallen at once, before Combeferre sighs, and smiles as well, weary and just as resigned as Joly. "Yes. We've looked over the reports and all indications are that you're doing well. Well enough that the greater danger now, I think, is staying, rather than leaving." 

That's all it takes for Grantaire to rise from the bed and head for the door. Joly catches his arm before he reaches it and pulls him around, frowning hard at him. "Don't forget," he says. "That doesn't mean you don't have to be _careful_. We got you here without anyone realizing you were something more than any other resident, and that was a minor miracle in itself, and surely due to the fact that all anyone could see when they looked at you was that you were on death's door. You walk out of here like this"--Joly flicks a hand up and down, encompassing Grantaire and the way he's standing before them, head held high, stronger than Enjolras has seen him since they disconnected him--" and people are going to notice you. It won't take Security long to find us, if rumors start flying." 

Grantaire nods, grave. "I know," he says, entirely solemn, and Joly takes a long look at him before he nods and lets him go. 

"Quietly, then. The others are waiting for us outside, but it's sickbay, people come and go without warning here, and you never know who might be on the other side of that door." 

Enjolras slips up past Joly and Combeferre to take a place at Grantaire's side as he pushes open the door to the isolation room. The others, as promised, are waiting for them outside, clustered together and looking concerned and hopeful. There's a wave of palpable relief that sweeps through them when Grantaire comes out, looking strong and standing on his own two feet. 

"Thank you," he says to them all in an undertone. "For helping me. For saving me." And he's talking about the frantic group effort to get him here and get him treatment, but Enjolras knows he's not talking about _only_ that. 

"Oh, stars, this isn't the time or the place for speeches," Éponine says, but there's a crooked bent to her mouth that softens the harshness of the words. She comes forward from the rest and catches Grantaire by the arm, pulling him towards the sickbay doors. "Let's get you home, then we can celebrate." 

Grantaire gives her a thin, grateful smile. "That sounds like a great plan to me." 

*

With Grantaire awake and aware and able to give them the insight of his knowledge of the ship's layout, and without the urgency from before that drove them to take greater risks and choose the more direct routes over the safer ones, they make it back to the barracks without much in the way of incident. Once they had to duck down an adjoining corridor as a group from Security went stomping past them, comms crackling with urgency, but they passed in a moment and then they were able to continue on their way. 

No one speaks, except for brief, hushed words to give or confirm directions, until they're back in the barracks with the bolt slid securely behind them, and then everyone seems to let out their breath and start talking at once. 

Enjolras ignores most of them. He guides Grantaire to Enjolras's own bunk and urges him to sit, then seeks out Éponine. "He's doing better now," he says. "But the medication will wear off eventually, and we don't know how much he needs, or when. We need those drives." 

She glances over to where Grantaire is still sitting, his gaze distant, turned inward. Her glance only lingers a second before it swings back to Enjolras. "Yes," she says. "And I'd bet anything that the missing data from the logs is there, too. It wouldn't make sense to have multiple servers scattered throughout the ship. If there's information that they're purposely trying to keep from the mainframe, they'd keep it all together." 

"From Grantaire," Enjolras says quietly. He remembers the way Grantaire had looked when he'd found out that Security had a history of passing by potentially-viable planets. Security's never bothered with anything more than multi-layer encryption to try to keep nosy people like Enjolras and Éponine out of information Security doesn't want them to have. To go so far as to use old-school drives, entirely disconnected from the rest of the system... "They're trying to keep the information from Grantaire, not the general populace." 

Éponine gives him a look for a moment, and Enjolras can't read it. It's flat, maybe a little stricken, a lot serious. "Right." She takes a breath and squares her shoulders. "Either way, you're right. We need the drives. Do we have a plan for where to search?" 

Enjolras shakes his head. "Not yet." It's only been hours since they all thought the ship's memory banks were all stored on servers, rather than inside Grantaire. Floreal is right, there isn't anywhere in the void to hide enough servers to store all of the information that's been generated during the centuries-long voyage. But there are spaces enough that could hide a single server, or two. They could be almost anywhere. "Want to help?" 

Éponine's smile is sharp and fierce. "You know I do." She's already got her datascreen in her hands, already has the blueprints Grantaire sent them pulled up. "It has to be somewhere in the void still, we're agreed on that, right? There's nowhere else in the ship that has the kind of solitude they'd need to prevent anyone finding them." 

Enjolras nods and settles in at her side. "It seems a safe assumption. We'll start there. Here, pull up sector E289, I thought I saw something there..." 

*

By the next morning, they've sorted through their blueprints of the void and eliminated all the rooms and halls they've already set foot in, where a bank of servers would have been noticeable. With Grantaire's help they eliminate more, and end with a list of half-a-dozen of the most likely places to search. 

It's not comprehensive, but it will have to do. Halfway through the night, Grantaire lurches away from them abruptly with a hand pressed to his stomach and an alarmed frown creasing his brow, muttering a brief, "Excuse me, I don't feel well." 

Enjolras follows him, concerned, and finds him in the bathroom bent over the sink, one hand holding his hair gathered at his nape and the other braced against the sink's edge. He gags and retches when Enjolras slips in to join him, but doesn't bring anything up, and Enjolras doesn't know if that's a good sign, or simply due to Grantaire not having anything in his stomach to bring up. 

"I'm fine," he gasps before Enjolras can say anything. "I'm fine, I just--" 

"Your medications are wearing off," Enjolras says quietly, and Grantaire nods his agreement and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth. "Do you think you can make it to Joly's bunk without vomiting on the barrack floor, or should I bring him here?" 

Grantaire shakes his head hard and straightens. "I can make it, I think." 

He doesn't look sure about that at all, but Enjolras takes him at his word. He curls his arm through Grantaire's and helps to take some of his weight as they leave the bathroom and go to where Joly is curled on his doubled bunk, Musichetta at his back and Bossuet on her other side, an arm thrown across them both. 

Grantaire edges back when he looks down at them, but Enjolras knows Joly's priorities. He doesn't hesitate, just drops to a knee beside the bunk and shakes Joly's shoulder, light enough not to disturb his bedmates. 

Joly wakes immediately, going tense beneath Enjolras's hand before he pushes the blanket off of himself and rolls upright. "What is it?" 

"I think we've learned the hard way how long Grantaire's medications last before he needs another dose," Enjolras says, dry. 

Joly takes a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes, then gives a sharp nod and gropes out for his cane, leaning in its usual place against the bunk's post at the head of the bed. "I brought the vials with me," he says as he works himself to his feet. He's moving like his hips are stiff, and that's Enjolras's fault, he knows. Joly's hips are never good when he's running on too little sleep. "They're in my bag." 

"I'll get it." 

Joly shakes his head. "We'll only disturb them, if we stay here." He casts a glance down at the sleeping couple and his expression goes soft and fond for a moment. Then the moment passes and he shakes his head, and starts across the room to where he left his medical kit the night before. 

It's the work of a minute or two to fill half a dozen syringes with medications from the vials, then Joly gestures for Grantaire to come nearer, and to turn, offering his arm. He preps the skin quickly and warns, "These are going to sting a bit, I'm afraid," before he gives the first shot. 

Grantaire sucks in a sharp breath, and reaches out to grab onto Enjolras's hand at the third. His grip is tight enough to be painful, to make Enjolras's joints ache, but Enjolras just holds on to him until Joly has finished. 

"Sorry," he says with a grimace when he glances up at Grantaire's face, a little pale and broken out in sweat. "I did warn you. These medications aren't fun ones to receive intramuscularly. You were unconscious last time, so at least there was that." 

It makes Grantaire smile, at least, faint but genuine. "I'll take the sting over that any day. Thank you." 

Joly hums an acknowledgment but continues to look troubled as he frowns at Grantaire. "I just hope we're near to the mark with the dosage, or we'll start seeing complications that will make the injections seem like a cake walk in comparison." He pats Grantaire's shoulder -- the one that didn't receive the injections -- and adds, "You'll let me know immediately if you notice any new symptoms, or any that had gone but then return. Even if I'm asleep, do you hear me? That's the trade-off for letting you leave sickbay and the monitoring equipment there. You have to keep me updated." 

"I will," Grantaire promises solemnly. Then, "Go on, go back to sleep. I'm fine, and I'll let you know if I'm not." 

Joly nods and gives him a grateful, if tired, smile and limps back across the barracks to his bed, and his companions. 

In the morning, Enjolras wakes to a series of erratic beeps. He rolls over, groping for his datascreen, and shields his eyes from the lights with an arm while he unlocks it to see what the source of the alerts is. 

There aren't any notifications, though, now new messages, nothing that would cause the 'screen to beep at him. As he holds it in his hands, frowning at it in thought, it beeps again, and then a second time almost immediately after. There's still no alert, but Enjolras noticed a tiny flicker of motion. The icon in the corner indicating the presence of the wireless signal disappeared with the first beep, and reappeared at the second. The signal's flickering. 

Enjolras rolls out of bed, immediately alert as adrenaline pumps through his system, and goes searching for Grantaire. 

He finds him curled in one of the barrack's chairs, face slack, one arm hanging limp over the armrest, and for a moment terror grips him. But when he drops to a knee beside Grantaire and lays a hand on his shoulder, Grantaire jolts awake, blinking sleepy eyes up at him. As soon as he rouses, Enjolras's datascreen beeps again, the wireless returned. Enjolras pulls it out of his pocket long enough to frown down at it, then back at him. "Are you feeling all right?" 

Grantaire's gaze goes distant and fuzzy for a moment. "I'm not one hundred percent. A little lightheaded, a little nauseous. Mild tachycardia and increased respiratory rate. But not like it was before." 

"Are you certain?" 

Grantaire nods, and reaches out to lay a hand on Enjolras's knee. His palm is warm, even through the fabric of Enjolras's pants. Enjolras looks down at that point of contact and can't bring himself to rise or move or otherwise disturb him. "I'm sure. The medicines, they're still working." 

Just not the way they were before, when Grantaire had been connected to Security's nutrient conduit, and he'd been receiving the right dosages at the right times. Enjolras takes a breath and nods. "We need those drives. We need to get you stable." He makes himself stand, makes himself step away and turn from Grantaire to find Éponine. 

She's sleeping, unsurprisingly, but she rouses even as Enjolras draws near. In moments they've both dressed and gathered what few things they'll need, and gathered Bahorel and Jehan as well, for their weapons and their strength. They've already discussed this with the other two, and half the barracks is still asleep by the time they're all ready to go. 

Enjolras stops by his bunk to retrieve Feuilly's beacon and activates it as he slips it into his pocket. Éponine's with Grantaire and he goes to get her, stops half a dozen paces away when he hears her murmuring to him, "Just do what you can. Do your best. It's all right if the wireless goes down, we can live without that, though we may whine and gripe a bit. But keep the computers running, yeah? Everything we need to know to get there and get back safely is on our datascreens. I made sure they're downloaded locally so we won't need the wireless, per se, but the datascreens themselves went haywire last time you had an attack. If they do that again and we're out there, we won't be able to find our way home." 

Grantaire's expression is very, very solemn. He nods slowly and his gaze slides away from Éponine to Enjolras. He holds it there as he answers in a similar murmur, "I understand the stakes. I won't let it get to that point, I promise." 

Éponine nods once. "Good," she says, and rises, turning to Enjolras. "Ready?" 

"Ready." He pulls open the barracks door and they all cross the threshold together.


	11. Chapter 11

They all travel together through the more populated halls, where they won't garner suspicion. But when they reach the edge of the void, they duck down a service corridor with limited Security surveillance to plan briefly.

"We'll be faster if we split up," Enjolras says, pulling up the blueprints on his datascreen as Éponine and Jehan and Bahorel do the same. "Éponine, do you want to take half, and I'll take the rest?"

She nods once, sharp, focused. "I'll take Bahorel, you take Jehan?"

"Works for me." At his side, Jehan pulls a knife and flips it from finger to finger, grinning with fierce delight. Bahorel isn't the only one who's been spoiling for a fight, lately. "We'll take these three sites"--he sidles in close beside Éponine so he can see her datascreen, and sweeps a finger across the display to indicate three of the locations they'd marked as likely locations for the drives--"you two take the other three?"

"Sounds good." She marks her sites with a tap of her thumb that leaves color across the screen, then slides it into her pocket and catches Bahorel by the arm. "We've farther to travel, we'll go first. Give us five minutes before you follow, so we don't attract attention."

Enjolras nods and leans back against the wall to wait while Éponine and Bahorel slip out into the main hall. He marks his own sites on his blueprint the same way Éponine did, then shuts the file and pulls up a message to Combeferre and Joly instead. It's a brief note, only one line, asking: _How's he doing?_

Three minutes later, his datascreen buzzes lightly in his palm.

_1 new message. From: Combeferre_

_He's fine. Joly's keeping his eye on him, and running a search through the knowledge databases for information about the drugs that might help us find our way to the best therapeutic dosage and administration schedule, just in case. He's not throwing up or passing out or making the ship go crazy, so we're in good shape. He's just feeling a little ill, but that could be side effects of the medications. He's used to a steady drip, not such large doses at one time._

_He's fine, E. We'll let you know if that changes, promise._

Enjolras lets out a breath he hadn't meant to be holding. He shoots a quick _Thanks_ in reply, then slides his datascreen into his pocket and meets Jehan's eye. "Ready?" It's been five minutes, or near enough. Time for them to go.

Jehan nods and flashes a grin. " _So_ ready. Let's do this."

They go together, ducking out into the hall and hurrying toward the first site.

*

The first site marked out on their map turns out to be an electrical room, precisely as dictated on the blueprint's diagram. Jehan steps in, glances around quick enough to determine the drives aren't there, and then slides out again, but Enjolras lingers. He traces the lines of wires and the panels of indicator lights with his eyes, then his fingers. Their access to the mainframe in the barracks is limited to what's routed through their walls, and they've made do with that. They've punched holes in every wall Security has tried to thrown their way, and it's been effective, but neither easy nor elegant. But _this_... If they could tap into these lines, they'd have the whole ship laid out before them, as easily manipulated as pieces across a game board.

"Enjolras," Jehan hisses, coming back and gripping his arm. "It's not here."

Enjolras gathers himself, and shakes off his momentary preoccupation. Jehan is right, of course. This room could give them free access to just about any of the ship's systems -- but not the external drives. He turns his back on the electrical room and everything it promises, and hurries along at Jehan's side to the next location on the blueprint.

The second site is even more of a disappointment than the first. It's unlabeled on the blueprint, and they discover why when they bypass the locking mechanism and and enter to discover that it's little more than a store closet, a long, narrow room lined with shelves that are weighed down with all manner of items -- electronics, it looks like, and big, bulky equipment, and an entire shelf devoted to what seems to Enjolras to be jury-rigged contraband that Security must have confiscated from the ship's inhabitants. It's another room that bears further investigation, when they have the time and attention to spare for other things. But there are no servers and no drives, and this time, Enjolras doesn't have to be coaxed out. He holds the door for Jehan, secures it and reactivates the locks behind them so as to hopefully allay suspicion for as long as possible. And then he pulls out his datascreen, plans out a route to the next site, and hopes that Éponine is having better luck than they are.

They're nearly there when they come around a corner to find that the corridor ends in a doorway that isn't marked on the blueprints, and that's guarded by a Security officer standing just in front of it, his arms crossed, his attention mercifully distracted by a harried alert coming across his comms that must be Éponine and Bahorel elsewhere in the void.

Enjolras grabs Jehan by the back of the shirt and ducks back around the corner before they're seen. Jehan leans back against the wall, knife in hand again and flashing as Jehan flips it up and catches it midair, easy and calm. "Right. Give me a thirty second lead, and then follow behind me. That ought to do it."

"Are you mad?" Enjolras hisses and catches Jehan's sleeves. "You're not facing him _alone_."

Jehan's eyes glint, bright in the harsh light of the corridor. It's a smile, fierce and frightening. "Don't think I'm good enough to take him on all by myself?"

"I know precisely what you can do, and precisely how good you are," Enjolras says, low. "But I know what Security can do, too, and he'll be armed with more than a knife."

Jehan shrugs one shoulder in eloquent insouciance. "Won't be the first time I've taken on someone bigger and better equipped than me." Jehan turns back, facing Enjolras squarely, and grabs onto his arm with tight fingers when he would voice another protest. "If we both come at him, we're done for. Let me go first, let him think it's just me. Then you follow while I've got him preoccupied and slip inside."

"And you?" Enjolras demands, scowling.

Jehan flashes a grin, as bright as a knife flipping through the air. "I _keep_ him preoccupied."

It goes against every instinct Enjolras has. They've all survived this long because they've stayed together, because they've had each other's backs when Security would have tried to divide them. This isn't how they work. This isn't what they _do_.

Jehan speaks, hushed and hurried. "Neither of the other two had a guard outside. If they have one here, it's because they have something worth hiding, something more important than any of the rest. The drives are here, they have to be. You know I'm right. We have to get in there, whatever it takes. _You_ have to get in there."

Enjolras takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes, just for a quick count of ten. It's not much, but it's enough to begin to settle him. He opens his eyes and meets Jehan's, nods once and sees the way it spreads satisfaction across Jehan's face.

"Thirty seconds," Enjolras says. "Don't get detained, Jehan."

Jehan nods acknowledgment but makes no promises. It's for the best; Enjolras wouldn't have believed them, anyway.

It goes against everything Enjolras is to stand there, hidden around the corner, and listen to Jehan run at the Security officer, to the officer's sharp, authoritative cry, to the grunts and the scuffle and the sound of fists or other weapons landing against bodies.

Enjolras counts to thirty, shaking, hating it. And when the count is done, he comes around the corner at a run.

Jehan and the officer are grappling, Jehan's knife a quicksilver flash, but the Security officer is quicker than his bulk would suggest. Enjolras almost hesitates, torn between their need for the drives and the more immediate need to to help Jehan. But Jehan sees him coming, a quick glance thrown to Enjolras from the corner of an eye, and manipulates the Security officer around so that Jehan's back is against the wall, and the officer's back is to Enjolras. He drives a fist into Jehan's stomach that forces out a wheezy cry, but he doesn't notice as Enjolras sidles past them both and crouches down with his datascreen to hack through the controls and unlock the door.

Every time a blow lands or a body slams up against a wall or the floor, Enjolras flinches. His code is running, though, scrolling across the screen almost too quick to read. It's the same code he used to release the doors outside where Grantaire was being kept, and he lets out a breath in relief to see it working.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" the Security officer growls, and Enjolras glances up to make sure Jehan is okay. But the officer isn't focused on Jehan any longer, he's looking at _Enjolras_ , striding toward Enjolras. And the code is almost finished running but it's not there yet, it needs more time, so Enjolras lets the datascreen dangle by its tethering cord and he stands, putting himself between the officer and the console.

Jehan is clambering up off the floor, recovering quickly from being thrown off by the Security officer. Jehan's gaze is flinty sharp and the knife isn't flipping through the air anymore, no more showy tricks. It's gripped in a tight hand and Jehan is running toward them both, running to help Enjolras the way Enjolras wasn't allowed to help Jehan. But it isn't going to be quick enough, and Enjolras can't fight, not when he has to _defend_ , to keep the officer from disconnecting the datascreen before the code's finished running, so he just pulls himself upright and stares the officer down and takes a fist like a hammer right across his cheek.

Pain explodes through him, sending his ears ringing and his head spinning. He doesn't even remember falling, just finds himself on the floor, his palms and one elbow throbbing from the impact. He tries to pick himself up, but the Security officer aims a kick at his side just as he gets his knees underneath himself, and it sends him sprawling back to the floor, wheezing.

Jehan's there before the officer can attack again, a blurred shape that leaps at the officer and grabs onto him, takes him down to the floor with one quick, lithe move, though Jehan couldn't be more than half the officer's size. Enjolras scrambles to his feet, a hand pressed to his side but giving no other concession to the injuries as he wipes sweat out of his eyes and grabs the datascreen to confirm the code finished running.

Everything looks how it ought to, so Enjolras disconnects the datascreen and leans his weight against the door to work it open. It makes him gasp with pain, bright arrows of it shooting out from the tender spot on his side, but he grits his teeth and forces himself through it, until the gap is opened wide enough for him to slip through inside.

Jehan joins him, a step behind, and Enjolras glances past to see the officer lying prone on the ground, unmoving. "Did you kill him?" He's not even sure what he hopes Jehan's answer is. Under other circumstances, Enjolras would fear that a dead Security officer would only make life harder for them as it brought Security's attention down on their heads. But they've absconded with Grantaire, and Enjolras doesn't think there's much they could do to make Security more determined to find them than they already are.

"I don't think so." Jehan looks thoughtful. "He should just be unconscious, but I make no guarantees."

Enjolras nods once, swallows the thickness in his throat, and continues inside. It's not as though he or Jehan could do anything for the Security officer, if he were dead or dying. And the lives of everyone else on the ship are more important than that of one Security guard.

The room inside is noticeably cooler than the rest of the ship, a draft created by the vent overheard blowing air in. And there in the back, hooked up to all manner of electrical wires and cords, are the drives they've been looking for, a tower about as tall as his knees and as broad as his chest. Enjolras goes and drops to a knee in front of it, feeling reverent as he reaches out to touch the wires and try to identify what can be disconnected easily and what will take somewhat more finesse.

Éponine's the one who knows computers, and knows hardware. Enjolras just knows hacking. He pulls his datascreen out and sends her a quick message: _We found it. Number three. Come help?_

The unit buzzes with her reply a moment later: _On our way. Be there in five._

"They're coming," he tells Jehan, and starts carefully disconnecting wires. "Go out and keep a watch for them? And make sure he doesn't wake up prematurely."

Jehan nods and slips out. It isn't even three minutes, much less five, before Enjolras hears the sound of running feet and braces, but Jehan doesn't call out an alarm and a moment later Éponine is at his side, dropping down to her knees beside him and letting out a long breath. "Nicely done," she says, her voice warm with satisfaction.

He pulls his hands away and sits back. "I didn't want to pull the wrong wire and risk damaging it."

She shoots him a sidelong glance that's eloquent with amusement. "It's a drive, not an infant. They're built to be sturdy." And without any ceremony at all, she reaches and starts tearing wires out by the handful.

Enjolras's stomach drops, but in minutes, Éponine has the tower disconnected and pulled across the floor closer to herself so she can better reach. It's heavy, scraping across the floor as she tugs at it, and Enjolras frowns. They're strong, and it's a manageable size. They can carry it if they need to, but they won't be going anywhere fast with it, and that seems dangerous if Security knows they're about and is coming to search for them.

Éponine doesn't hesitate, though. She cracks open the tower's case and reaches into the dizzying electronics, pulls out two components each about twice the size of his palm, and hands one to him. It's heavy for its size, but not unmanageable. Enjolras slips it into his pocket, and Éponine does the same, then reaches in once again and pulls two more out. These she hands to Jehan and Bahorel, who follow their lead. "In case they catch us," she says, rising to her feet. "So long as they don't catch _all_ of us, at least we'll get back with something. Hopefully it'll be the something that we need."

"They're not going to catch us," Bahorel says, looking somehow both grim and eager. "Just leave that to me and Jehan."

"Let's go, then," Enjolras says, and they leave the gutted machine behind.

They dart through service corridors and surveillance-free rooms. Outside, sometimes, they can hear Security running by, the rhythmic stomp of many men jogging in unison, and they press closer to the walls and try not to be too obvious about feeling for the reassuring shape of the drives in their pockets.

It's close, and it's nerve-wracking, but they make it back to the barracks with their group intact. Jehan knocks at the door and they all press close to make themselves less obvious until the bolt is thrown and they can come spilling inside, to be greeted with mingled reactions of hope and relief and concern.

"We got them," Éponine says, answering the question poised on everyone's lips. Enjolras pulls his out of his pocket and pushes it into her hands before all his attention is absorbed by Grantaire, who's on his feet and looking greyer than he should and staring at Enjolras like he's a ghost.

"Are you all right?" Enjolras hurries to his side. He takes his shoulders in his hands, turns Grantaire to the light so Enjolras can see him better, can look him over and make a catalogue of all signs that the medications aren't working the way they should be. "How are you feeling?"

"Am _I_ all right?" The laugh Grantaire gives is shaky and humorless. "What about you?"

"What _about_ me?" He's fine, they all are, demonstrably so. They're back, aren't they? And with the drives, and not detained.

That only makes Grantaire's brows lower, his mouth going flat and unhappy. He pushes Enjolras's hands off of him and cups Enjolras's shoulders instead, backing him up to the bunk and pushing even when Enjolras's calves bump against its edge, until he drops down and sits on it. "Stay there," Grantaire says, commanding, and Enjolras twists to watch him walk away and into the bathroom.

He's back in a moment, a wet cloth in his hands and dripping across the barracks floor. He sits at Enjolras's side, turned to face him, and turns Enjolras's face away with a light touch on his chin.

The cloth, when Grantaire brings it up to Enjolras's face, is warm, and stings like nobody's business. Enjolras pulls away on reflex, hissing, but Grantaire only grabs onto his shoulder more firmly and pulls him back.

Enjolras flinches at the second touch of the cloth, but settles beneath the weight of his hand and lets him dab it at his skin. "It's just a bruise," he says with a sigh. "Security was guarding the drives. Jehan took the brunt of it, but I caught a fist."

Grantaire makes a low, punched-out sound like he's the one who was struck, not Enjolras. When he pulls the cloth away, it's stained red and Enjolras recoils in surprise. "Is it bleeding?"

"Was," Grantaire says shortly. He turns the cloth around to a clean corner and starts wiping down over Enjolras's jaw and his throat. "It's stopped now, but he split your cheek open."

"I didn't realize," Enjolras says faintly. Now that he's moved away from the raw wound, the warmth and gentle rasp of the cloth over his skin is a comfort. A rivulet of water drips down his throat and beneath the collar of his shirt, but Enjolras ignores it and lets his eyes slide shut as he tips his head away from Grantaire, giving him greater access.

He nearly jumps when Grantaire touches him, the soft warmth of his fingers where Enjolras was expecting the cloth. "You'll need a proper examination," he says quietly. "An impact like that could easily fracture your zygomatic arch."

Enjolras smiles a little, he can't help it, even though the movement makes his cheek sting anew. "Careful," he murmurs. "Keep talking like that and I'll mistake you for Joly."

"I'm not a physician," Grantaire says, growing impatient, and the fact that he thinks it needs stating makes Enjolras smile wider. "I have access to the texts in my database, I know the terms, but I don't have the skill or the practice."

Enjolras reaches out and lays a gentle hand on Grantaire's knee, a silent apology. "I don't much feel like moving, after all of that. But if he's willing to come over here, I'll suffer an examination."

Grantaire only hesitates a moment, then gives a sharp nod. He uses a hand on Enjolras's shoulder to help push himself to his feet and carries the dirtied cloth into the bathroom to emerge a moment later, empty-handed. Enjolras watches him cross the barracks and crouch to speak with Joly a moment. They both dart glances at Enjolras and then Joly nods, smiles, and grapples for his cane.

Grantaire hovers over him as he crosses the room in a way that the rest of them have learned not to, over the years, until Joly shifts his weight to his good leg and swings his cane out to rap it lightly against Grantaire's shin. He says something to him, still too far away for Enjolras to hear, and Grantaire pulls back, then comes ahead to sit beside Enjolras, looking chastened.

Joly reaches them a moment later and lowers himself down to sit on Enjolras's other side. Enjolras watches him to see how he sits, if he rubs at his hips, if he's straining himself to see to Enjolras. He looks uncomfortable, but there are precious few days when he doesn't, and he at least looks better than he has been, so Enjolras says nothing and allows him to cup his chin in his hand.

Joly turns his face from one side to the other, then presses a thumb to Enjolras's cheek. He grimaces an apology when Enjolras hisses and tries to pull away. "It might be fractured," he says. "Hard to say without scans." He presses the thumb to the hinge of Enjolras's jaw. "Open your mouth?"

Enjolras does so obediently, and closes it when instructed. Joly looks thoughtful and hums a little. "No trismus," he says to himself. "It's not likely to be a malar fracture. So long as you're careful, if it is fractured, it should heal well enough by itself." He pulls back and give Enjolras a stern look. "That means no more taking punches from Security officers, you understand."

"It was important."

Joly's expression is fearsome, and Enjolras quells beneath it. "If you get a malar fracture you'll need surgery to put the pieces of your face back together. You'll need plates and screws drilled into your skull to hold everything in place. How easy do you think it's going to be to dodge Security while you're lying on the operating table? Or in recovery, bandaged up and too sore to move?"

"I'll be careful," Enjolras says quietly.

"Good," Joly says firmly. "Now come closer and let me disinfect that wound properly. You're going to need stitches, I think." He turns, catching Grantaire's eye. "I left my kit over by my bunk. Would you go get it for me, please?"

Grantaire hurries off to retrieve it. He's back in a moment, and Joly places the bag across his knees and fishes inside. "This is going to sting," he warns, and there's already an apology in his voice, so Enjolras braces himself.

The antiseptic feels like fire. Enjolras flinches back despite himself, gasping, and Grantaire is there at his back, hands a gentle pressure on his shoulders, supporting him. Enjolras is grateful for it, and he leans into the touch more than is necessary. Grantaire is saying something, low and comforting against his ear, and Enjolras can't make out the words over the sudden pounding of his pulse, but it gives him something to focus on as Joly cleans the wound.

"You'll like this one better," Joly says when he's finished with the antiseptic, and spreads something across the gash that makes Enjolras's skin go numb and a little tingly. It's such a relief after the burn of the antiseptic that Enjolras slumps.

"You couldn't have used that one first?" he asks dryly, looking up at Joly.

Joly just gives him an equally dry smile and shakes his head. "Not unless you _want_ it to get infected." He prods at Enjolras's shoulder until he sits up straight again. "Close your eyes and hold still."

Enjolras gives him a frown. "Why do I have to close my eyes?"

Joly's mouth goes flat with exasperation. "Because there's going to be a very big needle very close to your eye, and instinct is going to make you want to pull away from it. And if you pull away while I'm placing the sutures, you're going to do worse damage to yourself than Security did. You are the _worst_ patient, Enjolras, I swear by the heavens. Stop arguing and do as your doctor tells you."

Enjolras would be tempted to argue, to insist that he has enough will power not to move no matter how alarming the needle seems and that he'll only find it more upsetting, not less, if he can't see what's going on. But before he can, Grantaire slides in closer behind him, a warmth and a pressure at his back that silences him, leaves him speechless and his pulse pounding once again for reasons that have nothing at all to do with Joly.

Enjolras lets out a breath and shuts his eyes and focuses on the feel of Grantaire behind him. "All right," he says to Joly. "I'm ready. I won't look."

Joly tips his face up with two fingers beneath his chin. "You'll feel pressure, and tugging, but it won't hurt. If it hurts say so, immediately."

"If it hurts, you'll know," Enjolras says, dry, and then Joly poises the tip of the needle against his skin and he doesn't say anything at all.

It doesn't hurt, Joly's right about that. But he can still feel it, can feel the needle pulling through his skin and the tug of the stitches as Joly ties each closed, and even though he was expecting it, it's still alarming. His pulse trips with each suture and Joly was right, instinct makes him want to pull away. Grantaire is a steadfast support at his back, but that doesn't make fighting the desire to press back into him any _easier_.

Eventually, Joly ties off a suture and doesn't immediately start on the next. Enjolras lets out all his breath and slumps, suddenly boneless even though he hadn't realized he'd been holding himself so tense all along. He keeps himself still and his eyes closed while Joly smears another ointment across the stitches, then sits back. "All right," he says. "I'm done messing about with you, if you want to open your eyes."

Enjolras does, and sits up straight with a little nudge from Grantaire, pushing him up as though to remind him how much of his weight he's let Grantaire take.

"You'll want to keep the sutures dry for at least forty-eight hours," Joly says sternly. "After that you should wash around them twice a day, but don't wash them directly or you'll pull them out prematurely and we'll have to do this all over again."

"I won't," Enjolras promises, and reaches out to clasp his arm. "Thank you, Joly."

Joly's severe expression softens with a smile. "If you really want to thank me," he says gently, "you can try not needing my services for a little while. That would be a nice change."

"I'll do my best," Enjolras answers, dry, and lets Joly return to his bunk.

As soon as he's gone, Éponine's calling for Enjolras from across the barracks, waving an arm to gesture him over. "We've got them hooked up," she says, and gestures to where she's got the four drives spread out across her bunk and wired up to her datascreen. "Do you want to come take a look?"

Enjolras is up on his feet immediately, though the suddenness of it makes his cheek twinge. He grimaces and pulls himself back, then turns to Grantaire. "Do you want to come?" He offers a hand down to where Grantaire is still sitting, cross-legged at the edge of his bunk. "Do you want to see what they've been hiding from us?"

Grantaire only hesitates a moment, uncertainty flashing across his face. Then he nods and puts his hand into Enjolras's, and lets him pull him to his feet.


	12. Chapter 12

Éponine suffers Enjolras hovering behind her, hanging over her shoulder to watch as she scans through the files on the drive, before he grabs her arm one time too many to ask her to stop and go back, to look into a file whose name caught his eye or seems promising. When her patience gives out, she heaves a sharp sigh and reaches back to grab a fistful of Enjolras's shirt and pull him out from behind her, up to sit on the bed beside here where he can't see what she's doing. 

"Give me your 'screen," she says in a brisk tone that expects and demands obedience. 

Enjolras hands it over and watches quietly as she cracks open the back and deftly wires it into the drives, the same way they've wired into lines running through the walls to bypass the wireless. In a minute, maybe two, she hands it back to him, its screen glowing bright and a list of files scrolling across it, same as scrolls across hers. "There," she says, short, clipped. "Now you can stop and look at whatever you like. Meanwhile, _I'm_ going to see if I can't find the data from the missing logs, see if we can't get an answer to where we are and why we've been sailing on by likely planets without so much as a probe to determine viability." 

Enjolras leaves her to it. It's important information to have, but it's not his priority, not with Grantaire sitting at his side and once more looking grey and vaguely nauseous, even as he leans in against Enjolras's shoulder to look at the datascreen with him. 

"Tell me if anything catches your attention," he says to Grantaire, and scrolls through the seemingly-endless list of files. 

Grantaire stops him sometimes, with a hand on his arm or a sharp, inquisitive sound. Sometimes when Enjolras opens the file and looks at him, waiting while he scans through lists of numbers that mean nothing to Enjolras, Grantaire frowns and waves a hand and says, "No, never mind. Keep going." Other times his gaze gets sharp and intent, and he says, "Save that one to your device, we'll want to come back to it." 

Enjolras calls Joly over when they find a list that looks to be names of medications, but Enjolras lacks the knowledge and Grantaire the experience to make sense of it. Joly scans it and hums thoughtfully and then shakes his head. "I don't know the significance of these, or why they'd hide them on these drives, but they're not the medications Floreal instructed us to give to him. Whatever they are, it's something else." 

"Will you stay and help us with the rest?" Enjolras asks. 

Joly looks at him and smiles. "Of course." 

They find a dozen files that Enjolras saves to his 'screen at Grantaire's direction, and a handful of others that make Joly lean forward and murmur, "Oh, now _that's_ interesting," and Enjolras saves them without needing to be told. 

"What's that?" Grantaire asks, pointing to a file that's too large to be a database or spreadsheet like the others, and Enjolras opens it automatically like he has all the others Grantaire has pointed out. 

His screen goes black. Enjolras glances at Grantaire automatically, concerned, but he looks fine, just frowning in puzzlement or concentration. There's a crackle of static from the datascreen that draws Enjolras's attention back to it, and he sees that there's text on the screen now. It reads SUBJECT 047612 - SECOND EVALUATION - 2194-W18-5 in bold white letters that cut across the black. 

There's another crackle of static and then a voice saying, "Ident number oh-four-seven-six-one-two. Is this really going to be necessary every time? You know who I am." 

It takes Enjolras a moment to place the voice because there's humor and warmth in it, more than he's used to. But it's Grantaire's voice, it's _Grantaire_ , and Enjolras glances at him again, his fingers tightening on the datascreen. 

Grantaire's a beat behind Enjolras. His eyes go wide with the realization, his face pale with it even as another voice, one Enjolras doesn't recognize, says, "Standard protocol. Come on, you know how it is, just say the words." 

"Right, right. Heavens forbid we mess about with _standard protocol_." There's a laugh, light and easy, and the screen brightens at the edge of Enjolras's vision. He turns to look, sees a face, a smile, and that's all he gets the chance to take in before Grantaire snatches the datascreen out of his hands and presses it face-down to his lap. 

There's a glow of light around the edges of the screen where it's pressed to the fabric of his pants, and the image may be obscured but the audio's still coming through, Grantaire's voice saying, "Sorry, let's try this again. Ident number oh-four-seven-six-one-two, Security department. I submit to this examination freely and of my own volition." 

Grantaire scrambles at the sides of the 'screen until he finds the volume controls and the sound of his voice abruptly dies away, leaving the room abruptly very still and very quiet. 

He glances up at Enjolras slowly, and when he meets Enjolras's gaze, he looks stricken. Enjolras reaches out and covers Grantaire's hand with his own, squeezes it gently and is gratified when Grantaire's shoulders slump in response, and he lets out a sharp breath. "You can't watch that." 

"What's on the video?" Enjolras asks him quietly, carefully. 

He breathes unsteadily for a moment. "I don't know. I don't remember that." 

Enjolras lifts Grantaire's hand off of his leg so he can thread their fingers together. "Then why don't you want us to see?" 

"It's _me_ ," he whispers, hoarse and pained. "Without the projection. What if it makes you go mad, or kills you?" 

Enjolras considers that for a moment, and lets Grantaire see that he's considering it, that he's treating it seriously and not dismissing Grantaire's concern out of hand. "But you were--" He trips over the word 'normal' and swallows it down. "This must be one of the psych evals Floreal mentioned, which means this was recorded before they did anything to you. You haven't always been dangerous to look at, not all your life. They wouldn't have recorded this if you were. They wouldn't have made this file, they wouldn't have kept it all this time, if it wasn't safe to watch." 

"They didn't keep it for _you_ to watch. They buried it on a secret drive and protected it with guards so no one would see it. No one but them. And Floreal said-- do you remember? She said, ' _That doesn't work on me.'_ " 

"I remember," Enjolras says quietly. And Grantaire's right, if Security is immune then they can't assume anything. If Security is immune, it wouldn't matter if the old, recorded image of Grantaire is dangerous or not. "I didn't see much on the video, I didn't have the chance," he says after a moment. "But I saw enough to know that you didn't look in the video how you looked when we found you. You looked as different there as you do now, and this is different enough to be safe." 

"You can't know," Grantaire says, and his hands shake. When he frowns and tightens his fingers around the 'screen, it only makes the trembling worse. "Not without risking the worst." 

He's right, of course. Enjolras leans forward and lays his free hand over the one Grantaire still grips the 'screen with. "Okay," he says quietly. "We won't look. But do you want to?" 

Grantaire's gaze flashes up to his, wide-eyed. His breath comes faster, and his fingers flex beneath Enjolras's. "I don't know. I want-- I don't know." His throat works in silence for a moment, then his voice drops to an uncertain whisper. "Maybe." 

"Okay," Enjolras says again. He takes the 'screen gently from Grantaire, and without glancing at the display, with his gaze held steady and level on Grantaire's so he knows he's not looking, he hits the button that will exit out of the video. He turns it around, showing the display to Grantaire, and asks, "Safe?" 

Grantaire bites on his lip and nods once, short and jerky. 

Enjolras looks at it, then, at the endless list of files. He downloads the video file, and any others whose file sizes suggest they're likely to be videos as well. And then he disconnects the 'screen from the drives so it's untethered, and presses it into Grantaire's hands. "Do you want company?" he asks quietly, letting his touch linger on the backs of Grantaire's fingers. 

He hesitates, then shakes his head quickly. "Not-- Not yet, I don't think." 

"Okay," Enjolras says once more. He tightens his hands on Grantaire's, pulling him in so he can press a kiss to his forehead. Grantaire leans his weight in against him and breathes raggedly, so Enjolras lets him for a moment before he draws back and takes Grantaire's shoulders in his hands. "If you need anything, _anything_ \--" 

The corners of Grantaire's mouth twitch, curving up in the hint of a smile. "I'll let you know." 

"Good." Enjolras says it fiercely, and then has to force himself to let Grantaire go, to let his hands fall away and step back and give him space. He moves over to Éponine while Grantaire scrambles away, datascreen clutched in his hands like he thinks someone might take it from him, and sets himself up with his back in a corner, the 'screen propped on his knees. 

Enjolras turns away from him while he still can, turns to Éponine and bends down to look at the streams of data currently scrolling across her 'screen. "Finding anything promising?" 

She gives a satisfied sort of grunt and repositions so that they can both see better, and doesn't even comment this time on the fact that he's hanging over her shoulder again. "I think so. These look like flight logs, in any case. Not that these numbers mean anything to _me_ , but if we can combine them with the incomplete logs we already have and find a way to render the information, or even just get Grantaire to analyze it--" 

"Later," Enjolras says quietly, and resolutely doesn't look to where Grantaire is still sitting. He's turned the volume on the video up just enough that the sound drifts across the barracks, the rhythms of the voice familiar but the words indistinct. "He's busy right now." 

She glances up at him, and then across at Grantaire and nods once. Her gaze lingers, though, and then slides back to Enjolras. "You're really going to let him watch those alone?" 

Enjolras curls his fingers in against his palms. "He doesn't want company. I asked." 

"Sometimes what we want and what we need aren't the same thing." She drums her fingers against the edge of her datascreen's keyboard, watching him closely. "Go check in with him, at least. Make sure he hasn't changed his mind. This'll keep." She waves a hand at the 'screen, at all the flight data displayed upon it. "And I could do without you hovering. He'll probably appreciate it more than I will." 

Enjolras wants to be there with him, not here halfway across the room with the whole of the barracks separating them. It scarcely takes any encouragement at all to decide him. He slides off the bed and squeezes Éponine's shoulder in thanks as he passes, then starts toward Grantaire. 

He approaches from a direction that keeps the datascreen between them, its back facing him fully, so there's no risk of seeing the videos, or frightening Grantaire with the possibility of it. He glances up from the 'screen as Enjolras gets nearer, just a few strides away,and his expression is wrecked. 

Enjolras doesn't remember crossing the last of the distance between them, isn't aware of anything until he's dropping to his knees in front of Grantaire, pulling the 'screen out of his hands and laying it display-down on the floor beside them. He catches Grantaire's hands in his and grips them tight. "What is it? Will you tell me?" 

"That's not me." Grantaire's voice wavers and threatens to break. His face is a blotchy red, like he's been crying, though his cheeks are dry. His eyes shine with it, though, unshed. "Or-- I'm not him. I don't know that man. It's not me." 

Enjolras shifts around without releasing Grantaire's hands, settling down to sit beside him. He makes sure they're pressed from shoulder to knee, as he does so, and keeps his grip on Grantaire's hands solid, and hopes it's reassuring. "Maybe not," he says quietly. "But people change, we always change. And you've had longer to do so than most. I think it'd be stranger if you were still the same as you were back then." 

Grantaire's brows crease into a frown. He shifts away minutely, but doesn't make any attempt to free his hands from Enjolras's, so Enjolras keeps hold of them. "You remember who you were, though. You remember being that way." He twists, looking toward the abandoned datascreen. His voice drops, turns raw. "I don't remember that. All this video of me, and I don't remember any of it." His breathing frays and turns ragged. "I look happy, and I don't remember it. Why would I let them take that from me?" 

Enjolras suspects that anyone who was truly happy wouldn't have volunteered to let himself be experimented upon and turned into a living computer, but he doesn't say it. It wouldn't help. He just tightens his hold on Grantaire's hands and pulls him in, until Grantaire relents all at once and slumps in against him, arms going around his waist and gripping tight. He's trembling a little -- from fatigue, Enjolras thinks, or from the medications wearing off -- and he presses his face against Enjolras's shirt, tucked into the curve of his neck as he struggles to breathe. 

"I don't know who you were," Enjolras says quietly, wrapping his arms around Grantaire to hold him close. Grantaire shudders violently in his embrace. "But I like who you are. It's not a bad thing." 

Grantaire chokes out a laugh against Enjolras's shirt. "You can't even look at me, not properly. I'm a mess." 

"We all are, in our own way." 

Grantaire huffs, his breath warm and damp against Enjolras's throat. "I was happy," he says plaintively. "I want that back." 

"All right." Enjolras strokes a hand over Grantaire's head, the soft curls of hair a contrast with the harder curls of wire twisted through them. His hand comes to rest on the back of Grantaire's neck, pressed there for reassurance and comfort. "What would make you happy, right now?" 

Grantaire makes a broken little sound with his face still hidden against Enjolras's chest, like he knows that the thing that would make him happy is entirely out of his reach. Then he stills, his fingers curling where they're pressed against Enjolras's back. He lifts his head and blinks slowly at Enjolras. He's very close, and his eyes are very dark, and he stares like he's had an epiphany and it's all Enjolras's fault. 

"Think of something?" Enjolras asks with a slight, encouraging smile. 

Grantaire's gaze drops from his eyes. "Yes." He leans in, even more of his weight pressing against Enjolras, pinning his back against the wall. 

He presses his mouth to Enjolras's and Enjolras goes perfectly, completely still. His lips part on a surprised breath, but before he can do anything else, Grantaire's weight on top of him is gone. He opens his eyes to see Grantaire scrambling back from him, his expression stricken. "I'm sorry," he's saying. "I'm sorry." 

"Wait." Enjolras throws a hand out. He wants to grab on to Grantaire to stop his flight, but doesn't dare. Even so, Grantaire freezes as completely as if Enjolras had held him in place. "Please. Why are you sorry?" 

Grantaire stares at him, breathing hard, and Enjolras doesn't think it's from the kiss. Or at least, not in the way it ought to be. "Consent is important." 

Enjolras lets the air out of his lungs in a rush. He moves forward, but stops with a little space still between them, leaving Grantaire room to run if he needs to. "Okay," he says. "Then ask." 

Grantaire is half-sprawled backwards in his arrested flight. He stares at Enjolras for a moment longer, then slowly picks himself up, rolling up onto his knees and closing the distance that Enjolras left between them. His gaze holds on Enjolras's and he still looks frightened, still looks wary, but there's something under it that might be hope. He slides in, his knees pressing against Enjolras's, his hands coming up to cup Enjolras's elbows. They tremble against him a little, and there's still a grey cast to his complexion that's worrying, and Enjolras would pull him in close and urge him to rest. He'd tell him that he can ask later, there's no rush, his answer isn't going to change with some time to think on it. But Grantaire asks, "May I kiss you?" on barely a breath of sound, and he's so close and so warm. He's all Enjolras can see, the world reduced to nothing but brown skin and golden lines and big, dark eyes, his pupils blown so wide they've nearly swallowed his irises. It was fear that expanded them before, but Enjolras thinks it's something else now. He hopes it is. 

"Yes." Enjolras curls his fingers around the nape of Grantaire's neck. He traces the lines of circuitry with his thumb, following their path up his throat. Grantaire's breath hitches and his eyes are black now, as black as space. "Please." 

Grantaire leans in. Beneath their feet, the engines shudder and pulse like a stuttering heartbeat. His eyes are shining, bright as suns, and he leaves them open until the last possible moment. 

His lips are warm, soft. They part with a quick breath at the pressure of their mouths together. He tenses in Enjolras's hands and Enjolras fears he'll flee again. He keeps it light at first, keeps it gentle. He can feel Grantaire's pulse racing in his throat but he doesn't run. He trembles against Enjolras and curls his fingers around Enjolras's arms. 

Enjolras kisses him like that for a minute, for two, for longer. When he dares to deepen the kiss, he does so by slow degrees, every part of him finely attuned to the tremors running through Grantaire. He takes Grantaire's lower lip between his own and tugs on it gently. He feels the hitch in Grantaire's breathing and the rumble of the engines beneath them. But Grantaire doesn't run, so Enjolras traces his tongue across the seam of Grantaire's mouth and swallows his faint gasp. 

Grantaire makes a sound, low and unsteady, and lets go of Enjolras's arms to push his fingers into his hair. Enjolras follows that sound to its source, fitting their mouths closer together, slipping his tongue inside. He loses his breath when Grantaire meets him, matches him. It's a slick, heated glide, and Enjolras slides his arms around Grantaire's back to haul him in close before he even realizes he's moved. 

Grantaire pants into the kiss, then groans into it. He brushes his fingers through the hair at Enjolras's temples and burns up within his arms. 

The engines roar beneath their feet and the lights around them flare bright until they pop and shatter, raining down sparks and broken glass and enveloping them in darkness, so all that remains is the hot puff of Grantaire's breath and the warmth of his body against Enjolras's and the glint of his eyes as he blinks them open and stares at Enjolras, a shadow-cloaked shape in the dark. 

Enjolras's awareness returns slowly, the humming giddiness of his thoughts slowly giving way to the sounds of the rest of the barracks around them, the cries of dismay or annoyance by everyone else who's suddenly found themselves thrown into the dark. He senses movement beside him and turns without relinquishing his hold on Grantaire, recognizes Éponine crouching down beside them despite the way the light from her datascreen throws her face into strange relief. 

"All right, lovebirds," she says, wry, "that's a nice trick. We're just lucky we've got spares on hand. Do you think you'd mind helping us replace them, seeing as how you're the ones who made them explode in the first place?" 

"Of course." Enjolras gets to his feet without hesitating, though he's reluctant to put distance between Grantaire and himself. Grantaire rises, too, and drops one hand so they can stand side-by-side, but leaves the other curled securely through Enjolras's. 

"Careful of the glass," Éponine says. "It's everywhere." 

They pick their way carefully across the barracks to where most of the others are gathered, at least those who had shoes on. Those who were barefoot have gathered together on one bunk with their feet pulled up off the floor while Joly marshals help to sweep up the debris. There's a bright glow coming from where the others are, everyone's datascreens laid out together with their displays turned on, shining up to illuminate the ceiling so the rest of them can replace the shattered lightbulbs without trying to do so blind. 

They have basic repair supplies stored away in the barracks, so that they can do any that are needed themselves before Security comes down to oversee it, and discovers the various contraband and illegal modifications that could get every one of them detained, if they were discovered. It's a matter of moments to retrieve the lights from where they've been stored, and Enjolras relinquishes Grantaire's hand so he can climb onto the upper bunk and help install them. 

He's not the tallest of the group -- that honor goes to Bahorel, who towers over most everyone else in the barracks -- but he's taller than their average, so it only makes sense for him to be up there helping hold the lights up while Bahorel secures them in place. 

They have most of the lights up within an hour, and it gives them enough to see by without inducing eyestrain. So while they still have a few more left to replace, it's no longer an immediate need, and everyone's attention drifts from the lights to raucously teasing Enjolras over the reason they needed to be replaced to begin with. 

"Way to go, killer," Jehan says with an eyebrow waggle, while Courfeyrac throws his arms around Marius and Cosette and cries, "We always knew our Enjolras possessed a silver tongue, but _this_ is a surprise, I must confess." 

Grantaire seems to have escaped the worst of the teasing, though Enjolras couldn't guess whether it's because of the way Grantaire keeps close to his side and frowns as the teasing intensifies, or just because the others know Enjolras can take it in the spirit it's meant whereas ribbing Grantaire for his loss of control would only be rubbing salt in a wound that's already raw. 

Either way, they're all so preoccupied with the teasing, or with exclaiming to one another over the way Enjolras turns pink as it continues, that the quiet knock at the barracks door is almost missed beneath the sounds of conversation and laughter. It's Grantaire who hears it, abruptly going tense at Enjolras's side and lifting his head, looking toward the door with a slight frown. 

Enjolras squeezes his hand to get his attention. "What is it?" 

"I thought I heard something." 

"Do you want to go see?" 

Grantaire nods, a wrinkle still creased between his brows. So Enjolras rises and they go together, and he's glad for the excuse to give Grantaire a break from the others, because they mean well and they'd stop in an instant if either of them showed the slightest sign of distress, but that doesn't mean that they can't be overwhelming, sometimes. Especially to someone like Grantaire, who's unused to anyone's company, much less theirs. 

"I'm sorry," Grantaire says in an undertone when they're halfway between the gathered group and the door, as much privacy as their ever likely to have in the barracks. 

Enjolras stops in his tracks and turns to stare at Grantaire. "I can't imagine what for." 

Grantaire grimaces. He looks chagrined, but not upset. "I lost control. I didn't mean to. I didn't _expect_ to. But you--" He stops and stares down at his hands as he twists his fingers together. "Surprised me," he finishes at last, and then glances up at Enjolras through his lashes. 

Enjolras smiles, stupidly charmed. He lifts Grantaire's hand and kisses his fingers where they curl around Enjolras's palm. "And you me." 

"I'll get better. I can practice, or--" 

Enjolras's laughter is startled out of him. " _Better._ Heavens preserve me, I may not survive it. Practice, though, I like the sound of that." 

Grantaire flushes, his nose and the tips of his ears turning ruddy beneath the brown, which is more endearing than it has any right to be. "The door," he says, in lieu of answer, and Enjolras takes his cue from him and lets the conversation lie, crossing the last of the distance to the door. 

Security isn't subtle enough to knock so quietly, so he's relatively certain it's not them come to drag Grantaire off to his prison and the rest of them off to detainment. But even so, there's no one else who should be come calling, certainly not someone who wouldn't announce their intention through a message well before their arrival. He motions Grantaire to stand back where he won't be seen, in case he's wrong about Security, and then slides the bolt free and pulls the door open just wide enough to peer through with one eye. 

He sees only a strip of a person through the gap, but it's enough to make out the telltale uniform of a Security officer. Enjolras's heart gives a single, painful lurch and he grabs at the door's handle to slam it shut and throw the bolt and give the rest of them at least a few minutes to figure out an escape before Security comes blasting through to detain them all. 

Before he can do more than adjust his grip, there's a sharp sigh and a voice that's just familiar enough to give him pause. "You'll want to invite me in before the techs monitoring the camera feeds notice me out here. There's a lot of video for them to sift through, but they're very good at their jobs, so I'd say you have another minute, tops, to make up your mind." 

Enjolras pushes the door open, wide enough that he can see all of her. "Floreal." 

Her smile is brief and insincere. "In the flesh." She lifts a container that she's been holding in her hands, shakes it just enough that he can hear something rattle within. "These are a little bit stolen, so really, I think I and all your friends would appreciate it if Security did not get a chance to wonder what I'm doing hand-delivering stolen medications to your door, don't you think?" 

Enjolras's gaze slides sideways to Grantaire, leaning against the door beside Enjolras, just out of sight. Enjolras wouldn't trust anyone in Security to tell the truth with a laser pressed to their head and a twitchy finger on the trigger, but if she brought more medicines for Grantaire, if there's something they've been missing that's the reason Grantaire keeps getting ill... 

"What is it?" he demands. 

She smiles. "Let me in and I'll show you." 

"Let her in," Éponine says from behind Enjolras. He twists around to see her standing behind him, looking grim. "She can make more trouble for us out there than she can in here. So we'll hear her out, and if we don't like what she has to say..." She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "We'll decide how to deal with her then." 

It's not Enjolras's call to make, not when they all live here, and her presence puts them all at risk. He glances past Éponine to each of the others. They all seem more or less in accord, though with varying degrees of certainty. But no one speaks up to dissent or advise caution, so he turns to Floreal again. 

He braces his shoulder against the door and uses his weight to shove it open farther, enough for her to slip through. She cocks an eyebrow at him, unimpressed, and waits until he steps back and makes way for her before she strides through. 

Having a Security officer inside their home sets Enjolras's teeth on edge, and a glance around at the others shows they're no happier. They all come forward to see what she has to say, a circle of stony faces and folded arms. She glances around at them and doesn't seem the least bit intimidated. 

Her gaze falls last on Grantaire, and lingers there. "You're looking somewhat better than the last time I saw you," she says quietly. "I'm glad to see it." 

Grantaire's mouth goes tight and he presses in against Enjolras's side, his arm warm against Enjolras's. His arms fold across his chest, just as unyielding as the others. 

"You asked me a question, the first time we met." Her face creases for a moment. "Well. The first time for you. In any case. Do you remember?" 

Grantaire's frown deepens. Enjolras watches him closely, watches as he sorts through the memories until his expression clears abruptly. "You saw me," he says. "Without the projection. You said _that doesn't work on me_ , and I asked you why." 

"That's right." She lifts the container and rattles it again. "This is why." 

"Explain," Jehan says, hard and unflinching. 

Floreal doesn't even glance at him. She flips open the catch on the container and lifts up the lid, revealing rows of glass vials inside. Joly's the first to react, sucking in a breath and coming forward. He leans on his cane as he reaches forward and grabs one out of the box. Enjolras more than half expects Floreal to snap the box shut or snatch it back, to try to tease them with the promise of what she's offering, but she just watches him as he turns the vial around and rolls it between his fingers. 

"Ampules? Your big secret is _medication_?" He squints at the information etched into the side. "There's no name on here, just a number. What is this? What sort of medication isn't labelled with its name?" 

"The sort that no one knows about. It's an antiviral developed by Security, and its administered only to new Security personnel. These, though, are for you. There's one for each of you." 

Joly snatches the box out of her hand and holds it out blindly. Enjolras takes it from him and shuts it carefully as they all watch Floreal very, very closely. 

"Why do we need an antiviral?" Joly demands, his voice gone harsh. 

"Because you're ill, all of you. Everyone on the ship is, as a matter of fact. Except for those who've been inoculated, and Security only shares this with their own." 

"If you think any of us are going to inject ourselves with some mystery drug based on nothing but _your word_ \--" 

"No. Of course not. You're all far too wary for that." She moves, walking forward, and the rest of them move with her. She takes a seat on the edge of a bed and smiles serenely. "Gather around, then. Make yourselves comfortable, and I'll tell you all a story."


	13. Chapter 13

"This story starts where the last left off," Floreal says to the group gathered around her. "You all remember that one, right? The ship was running out of physical space to store all the data it was generating, a plan was developed to utilize DNA to encode and compress the data, and Grantaire here volunteered to take on the responsibility of seeing the ship and its inhabitants and all their descendants through to the end of our voyage." 

"Hard to forget," Éponine says, humorless. 

"Of course, having everything centralized like that makes protecting the system critical. You can't backup a person, and you can't replace parts if something gets damaged. That's why he was secluded the way he was." 

"Imprisoned, you mean," Enjolras says, his voice harsh. 

Floreal glances at him and her mouth tightens. Her eyes light with challenge for a moment, but then she takes a breath and lets it out, uncurls her hands where they lie on her thighs, and lets the tension out in a slow, careful choreography. "That's not an inaccurate term." She speaks quietly, not meeting Enjolras's eye. "But I can only tell this story as it was told to me, and as you can imagine, Security's choice of vocabulary is somewhat different. You'll have to forgive me for that." 

"Will we," Combeferre says, flat and unimpressed, his arms crossed over his chest. 

Floreal looks up and her voice abruptly snaps with temper. "Do you want to hear the rest of it or not?" 

"By all means," Enjolras says. He gives an expansive gesture. "Continue." 

It costs him something to bite back his protests, when he wants to lend his voice to the others'. But this information is important, and they don't have any other source for it but Floreal. They can wait until she's finished with her story, and _then_ they can tell her just what a fool she is for believing a single word Security has ever said. 

Floreal glances at him and holds his gaze for a beat, then two. Then she nods once and continues: "As I said, he was secluded to keep him protected. The rooms and facilities around his were moved and reorganized to create a buffer zone to further the protection. But we had a long voyage ahead of us, and people are inquisitive by nature. It was inevitable that someone would get curious, or get lost, and happen upon him. And what then? Everything could be lost. They needed a failsafe, a last-resort measure to keep him safe if all the others failed. And these were scientists who had successfully programmed a man into a living computer. How much of a challenge could it be to design a virus, compared to the complexity of the human genome?" 

"A virus," Cosette says, watching Floreal like she suspects a trap. "But we're not sick." 

"No. But you are infected. It's possible to be one one without the other." 

"Latency," Joly breathes, and everyone turns to him. 

Floreal gives him a sharp look. "What?" 

"Viral latency," he says again. "Some viruses, after their initial symptomatic infection, seem to have been conquered by the body's immune system. The symptoms disappear, the host becomes well, but the virus remains. It lingers, for years or decades or a lifetime, and no one is ever the wiser." 

"Yes. Just so. But they crafted the virus to avoid that first stage. There's no illness, no symptoms. Just a quiet infection that lurks." Her gaze is still on Joly, still intent. "And what happens with these latent viruses? After years or decades or a lifetime?" 

Joly lifts one shoulder. "Sometimes nothing. Sometimes the illness returns, if the host's immune system is weakened." 

" _Yes._ " She seems relieved. She lets out a breath as though she's been holding it, and her shoulders relax. "They never used the word latency in the tales they told us, but that's precisely it. They designed the virus to have no symptoms, to cause no illness. It simply spreads through a person's system and then waits. And for most, it never does anything but wait. The scientists programmed it with a very specific trigger, not a weakened immune system, in this case." She turns, then, and looks at Grantaire. For the first time, she seems to take in the grey cast to his face, the way his hands tremble whenever he lifts them from his lap. 

After a moment, she drops her gaze and brings a hand up to rub at her brow. "We've known how to program facial recognition into software for centuries. It's simple coding, I'm told. And viruses are simple organisms. So that's what they did, to keep Grantaire safe, to keep the secret of his existence from being discovered. They programmed the viruses to recognize Grantaire, and only then would they activate." She lifts her hands, starts to make a gesture but then pulls herself back, and simply curls her fingers in against her palms. "With devastating effect." 

Nausea burns in Enjolras's stomach. A swift glance around at the others shows the rest of them looking similarly effected, similarly revolted. Grantaire, though, looks incandescent. 

"It's not me," he breathes, like a man having a revelation. "It's not me doing those things, driving men mad, killing them. It's _you_." 

Floreal drops her gaze, then, and twists her fingers together on her lap. "It's Security, yes. It was never you." 

Enjolras pulls Grantaire in close. He looks as though he can't decide whether he wants to laugh in giddy relief, or launch himself across the space between them and claw Floreal's eyes out. He's tense as steel in Enjolras's arms for a moment, and then he goes lax all at once, leaning into him, pressing his face to Enjolras's shoulder. "It wasn't me," he breathes against Enjolras's shirt, against his skin. He shakes with it. "It wasn't _me._ " 

Enjolras holds him and strokes a hand over his hair, and stares at Floreal over his head. He can feel the heat of his hatred burning through him, and he's certain it's plain in his gaze when she meets his eye, briefly, and then turns red and looks away. 

"It's not right," she says quietly, her words aimed suddenly down at her lap. "What they did to you. What they've done to everyone." 

"You don't fucking say," Éponine snarls. She looks like she wants to launch herself at Floreal, too, but she looks much more likely to do it. "What you've done--" 

"I didn't put that virus in anybody. That decision was made long before any of us but Grantaire were born." Floreal looks up, looks at Éponine, and her eyes blaze. "You can blame me for believing what I've been told, if you like, and I suppose that's a fair criticism. But I'm here to try to help." 

"Why?" Enjolras demands. "Why help us? Why now?" 

She turns her gaze on him, and while it doesn't hold the anger it did with Éponine, there's still scorn there. "This isn't the first time I've helped you, or even the second." 

" _Why?_ " 

She takes a breath and looks at the box of ampules, and for a moment her expression goes soft and wistful and a little lost. "Back in Sickbay. You said we'd passed a potentially-viable planet without even sending probes down to assess the environment." 

"We did." 

"I know." Her fingers twist again, and her face goes agonized. "Say what you like about Security, about the fact that I _am_ Security, but they don't tell their secrets to all of us. I didn't know. I thought--" She breaks off and struggles with her voice for a moment. "I thought what we all did. That we're looking for a new home. That this voyage is in service to the greater good of future generations. That Grantaire's sacrifice was one he made to protect the rest of us until we could find a planet we could call home. That's what I've been told all my life, same as you. And you can call me a fool for believing it, and maybe it's even the truth. But I did believe it." 

Her voice wavers. "I know better know, and that's thanks to you. I looked into what you said and you're right. We had every reason to send probes down, but we didn't. No one I asked could give me a satisfactory reason why. As I said, I'm here because I want to help. And I want to help because I don't want to spend the rest of my life on a ship if I don't have to. I want to know what it's like to stand on solid earth some day, or for my children to, or my grandchildren, or their grandchildren. I want to help because I believe in what I was taught, even if it was all a lie." 

"And giving us this medication does that how, exactly? We've managed just fine on our own so far." Éponine still sounds furious, but there's less belligerence in her voice now. 

"As soon as Security realizes what you've done, how you've protected yourselves, the first thing they'll try to do is break the projection. With these, you'll still be safe, even if they succeed." 

"And everyone else on the ship will be in danger," Enjolras says quietly. 

Temper flares across Floreal's face. "I couldn't very well steal enough to inoculate the entire ship, now could I? I don't even know that it exists in that number. They certainly have no plans of using it so widely. This medicine is to protect you, but it's not the only way I intend to help you." 

"What else did you have in mind?" Combeferre asks, and of them all, he probably sounds the kindest to her. 

She glances at him and seems grateful, or at least relieved. She lets out a long breath and then shakes her head. "If I'd let myself think about it that much, I'd have talked myself out of coming in the first place. But, however I can help you. Whatever you need from me, you have only to ask." 

Éponine snorts, unimpressed, but Enjolras considers Floreal. He turns to see how Grantaire is doing beside him and finds him frowning and thoughtful. 

"What do you think?" Enjolras asks him. 

Grantaire gives him a startled glance. "You know her better than I do. I was half-dead most of the last time you spoke with her." 

It's true, perhaps. But she certainly seems to know Grantaire, and it's hard to remember that the opposite doesn't necessarily hold true. "You have information about her, though, don't you? Security must have personnel files, performance reviews--" 

"All that will tell you is whether I'm good at my job," Floreal says, her words short and impatient. "And I can tell you now that I am." 

"I'm sure you were a model soldier," Éponine says, droll. "Right up until the theft and betrayal." 

Floreal hesitates, and then drops her gaze down to her knees, her face flushing pink. "They betrayed first. They betrayed all of us, I can't believe _I'm_ having to tell _you_ this." 

"You don't, as a matter of fact. You only think you do because you're missing my point." Éponine kicks her feet out, draping herself back against the post of the bed behind her, fixing Floreal with a gaze that seems to sum her up and finding her wanting in all the ways that matter. "I'll clue you in, then. My point is, you can't be both. You can't be someone who's here claiming to want to help us _and_ someone who takes pride in being a cog in Security's machinery. You can't have it both ways. So which is it? Which are you?" 

"I'm here, aren't I?" 

Éponine hums and doesn't say whether she thinks that means anything at all. Enjolras isn't even sure himself. It could all be some elaborate ruse by Security to try to incapacitate them all in one blow. The risk of injecting themselves with some mystery substance that not even Joly has heard of before isn't lost on Enjolras. It could be anything at all. It could kill them, swiftly and neatly, and they'll have offered themselves up like lambs to the slaughter. 

Or Floreal's offer could be genuine, and the antivirals she brought might mean that Enjolras never again has to see Grantaire look at him the way he did when he found his psych evals, broken and terrified, not of Enjolras or of anyone else but of himself. If Floreal can keep Grantaire from ever having to fear himself again, Enjolras would be willing to risk just about anything. 

But not _everything_. His own life, perhaps, but not his friends. Not the only people standing between Grantaire and the prison cell Security would force him back into. Not without a better understanding of the odds he's playing with. 

"If you want to help," he says, "if you're sincere about that, then you can help Joly sort through the data on the drives. You know the names of the medications Grantaire was receiving, you've a better sense of how and when they might have been administered than we do, we could use your eye to help us sort the information we need out from the rest of the useless information." 

Floreal's brow creases with a frown. "What data? I told you before, his medical records aren't going to be accessible--" 

"Not on the main system, no." Enjolras takes her by the arm, and he's careful to be gentle about it, leading her, not pulling her. But he guides her over to where they have the drives set up, taking over most of a bed. "We found them." 

Floreal stares, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. Enjolras isn't sure if what he's seeing on her face is awe or horror, but she steps forward, away from him, and reaches a hand out to hover over the nearest of the drives without touching. "You're all mad," she breathes at last. "Do you know how hard they'll search for you, to get these back? Do you know what they'll _do_ when they get their hands on you?" She gives a faint, breathless laugh and shakes her head. "I've thrown my lot in with madmen." 

"They'd have to get their hands on us first," Enjolras says. "And the information was important. It'll help us keep Grantaire stable, and the rest of the ship safe. And somewhere on there is the proof we need that Security's been passing up planets without doing their duty to investigate their viability." 

"Madmen," Floreal says again, faintly, and then carefully moves the collection of datascreens wired into the drives to make space for her to sit at the edge of the bed. "Show me how, then, and I'll help you look for his medical record." 

Enjolras gives her a brief run-through of what they know of the system's architecture, enough that she can navigate through the files on her own and make sense of it all, and then he sends Joly over to help her look for the information they need about Grantaire's medications. 

Everyone else remains more or less in the loose circle they'd formed to hear Floreal's explanation, talking fierce and quiet amongst themselves while sparing occasional brief glances toward Floreal. They shuffle around when Enjolras returns to them, making space for him to sit beside Grantaire. Enjolras lowers himself down to sit cross-legged on the floor and reaches out to clasp Grantaire's hand in his own. 

"You're discussing the antiviral?" he says, only half a question, because he knows these people, and he recognizes the looks in their eyes. 

"We can't trust her," Éponine says, and the statement is an explosion like she's been fighting to hold it back all this while. "She's _Security_ , you know we can't believe a word out of her mouth." 

Enjolras nods. It's true, they've no reason at all to trust Security. But _Floreal_ , on the other hand... "If she meant to betray us, she's had ample opportunity already. She could have dragged me off to detainment when she first found me with Grantaire. She could have told Security about us and her suspicions when they discovered Grantaire was gone. She could have let us continue to struggle to figure out how to save him instead of seeking us out in Sickbay." 

"I don't think you can count that last one," Bahorel says with a frown. "She knew then even better than we did that if he died, we all died. She was saving her own skin as much as anyone else's." 

Enjolras shakes his head. "She knew where we were, or guessed it. She could have simply told Security and sent them down to detain us all, and return Grantaire to his chains." 

Courfeyrac clears his throat and he looks grim-faced, solemn. "She wanted to chain him back up, though. She said as much. She tried to convince him to." 

Enjolras shakes his head again, hard, not denial just frustration. They could argue this all night and into the morning and still end up exactly where they are now. They don't _know_ anything, not for certain, that's the problem. They know Floreal's actions, but they could debate forever what her motivations behind them might be. "There's really only one way to know for sure if she means the drugs to help or to hurt us." 

Éponine gives him a long, searching look, and then she swears violently. "You stupid son of a bitch, you're going to risk your life for her?" 

"No. I'm going to risk my life for us. For him." He threads his fingers through Grantaire's and squeezes. With his free hand, he reaches and takes one of the ampules from Floreal's box. He holds it out to Combeferre, sitting across the circle from him. "Will you?" 

Combeferre's breath comes out harsh and quick. "You want _me_ to be the one to take your life, if this all goes wrong? You might have asked Joly instead." 

"Joly's busy." And Joly's more likely to refuse him, besides. Enjolras drops his voice, speaks quietly and sincerely. "You're all right, of course. There's a risk, and we can't know whether she means these drugs to help or hurt us without trying it. I won't ask any of you to take that chance, not when this is my fault, in the end. If Floreal means to betray us and someone's life must be lost to discover it, I'd rather it was mine than any of yours." 

Grantaire's hand tightens on his to the point of pain. Around the circle, everyone's voices raise up in a clamor of protest. "Any one of us would say the same thing," Cosette says hotly, looking angry. 

"Let me do it." Grantaire's words are raw, his voice shaking. He pulls on Enjolras's hand until Enjolras turns to look at him. "I'll do it. Let me." 

"No," Enjolras says gently, freeing his hand from Grantaire's to lift it up to cup his cheek. Grantaire presses into his touch and stares at him with desperate heartbreak in his eyes. "No, you're the last person any of us would let take that risk. With all the medications you're already on, there's too great a risk of the antiviral interacting with something, even if it's what Floreal says it is. And if it's not..." His throat closes up for a moment and he shakes his head as he struggles to find his voice. "If it kills you, it kills everyone on the ship. Some risks are too great to take." 

"What if it kills _you_?" Grantaire asks, his voice breaking on every other word. 

"Then at least you'll be safe." 

"No." Grantaire's hand lashes out, latching onto Enjolras's wrist. " _No._ Not you." 

"Who, then?" Enjolras carefully pries Grantaire's fingers open. When he's able to slip his wrist out of Grantaire's grasp, he turns Grantaire's hand over and slides his own back into it. Grantaire clasps him tight, his hand shaking as he grips him. Enjolras watches it tremble a moment, wondering if it's from fear or from his medications wearing off. He clears his throat and speaks again, quietly. "I'm no more willing to risk my friends than you are to risk me, but somebody must take the chance, or we'll never know." 

"Floreal," Éponine says, her voice hard and her gaze just as steely. "Let Floreal take the first dose. And if she refuses... Well, we'll have our answer then, won't we?" 

"She's already had a dose once before," Combeferre points out softly. "We don't know how having another might effect her." 

Beside him, Marius shifts, frowning. "Besides, she brought a vial for each of us, but no extras. If we test one on her, someone will have to go without." 

Bossuet hums a noise from where he's pressed up against Musichetta's side, her arm curled easily around his waist like it's only natural for it to be there. "Better to go without than to take Security poison." 

They're doing exactly what Enjolras feared, arguing in circles, and they'll sooner find themselves touching down on a planet than they will reaching an accord that they can all agree to. He growls a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and leans forward to snatch one of the bottles from the box that's still sitting open on the edge of the bed near here Floreal had been sitting. "If you won't do it for me, I'll do it myself," he snaps. "How hard can it be to just shove a needle into your own arm?" 

"Oh, stars above." Combeferre pales, his complexion turning grey beneath the brown. "You don't know the first thing about it. You'll inject glass into your veins and then attract Security's attention with all the screaming you'll do over it. No, give it here. If you're going to insist on this foolishness, then I'm at least going to insist you do it _right_." 

Enjolras hands it back. He watches, at first, while Combeferre readies a syringe and breaks the top off the ampule. But Grantaire, still sitting pressed in close against Enjolras's side and clutching his hand like if he holds on tight enough nothing can ever take him from him, shivers hard as Combeferre draws the medication up into the syringe and turns his face in against Enjolras's shoulder. "Don't do this," he breathes against Enjolras's skin. "Please don't do this." 

Enjolras brings a hand up to stroke over his hair, then pushes his fingers into it, tangling with the curls and the wires alike. "You keep saying you don't want to hurt me. This could mean you won't, not ever. This might mean I could _see_ you." 

Grantaire shivers hard against him. "Or it might kill you before I have the chance to." 

Combeferre moves around the circle and touches Enjolras lightly on the shoulder, the syringe held carefully in one hand. Enjolras nods at him once, then tucks his fingers beneath Grantaire's chin and tips his face up so he can lean in and press their mouths together, because if he's misjudged Floreal and he's about to die for that mistake, he can't think of a better way to spend his last moments. 

Grantaire makes a sad, broken sound against his mouth and grabs onto the back of his neck with both hands, kissing him hard. 

Enjolras is distantly aware of Combeferre going through his preparations, the sudden chill of alcohol swabbed across his skin followed by a firm grip on his arm. He catches his breath at the prick of the needle, and then hisses into the kiss as the medication is injected, a burning through his arm like ice. 

Grantaire pulls away and tucks his head under Enjolras's chin and holds him with arms like a vise around his ribs while Combeferre bandages his arm and tugs his sleeve back down into place. "If you've just made me kill you," Combeferre says very quietly, "I won't ever forgive you." 

"I know," Enjolras says just as quietly, and keeps his arms around Grantaire, but leans sideways to press his shoulder in against Combeferre as well, despite the way it makes his arm throb. "I don't think I'm wrong, though." 

"How do you feel?" 

He gives a breath of laughter. "My arm hurts." 

"Injections tend to have that effect." 

"Other than that..." He shakes his head. "I don't know. Normal?" 

Combeferre drapes his arm across Enjolras's shoulders, just above where Grantaire's are wrapped around him. Enjolras feels warm and enveloped and loved. "You'll let me know the _very instant_ that changes." 

"If it does," Enjolras agrees, and there's little to do after that but to settle in and wait. 

They're all quiet. There are some murmured conversations in twos and threes, and eventually Grantaire loosens his grip around Enjolras and uncurls, and settles in at his side instead, though his gaze stays on Enjolras's face, tense and worried. 

"Enough of that," Enjolras says quietly. "You've more important things to worry over than me, don't you?" 

Grantaire looks like he's going to protest that assertion, and vehemently, but Enjolras calls to Combeferre before he can start an argument, "Combeferre, while you've got the syringes, you may as well leave them out for a moment longer. Grantaire looks like he could use his next dose." 

"I'm fine," Grantaire snaps, scowling. 

"You're not." Enjolras leans in and kisses him lightly. "Let him do this, will you? Let me stop worrying about you, and I'll let you fret over me to your heart's content." 

Grantaire's frown stays in place, but he allows Combeferre to wipe the alcohol over his skin and administer the series of injections. When he's finished, Grantaire looks at Enjolras as though to say, _Well? Are you satisfied now?_ Enjolras leans in against his side and murmurs, "Thank you," so Grantaire will know that he is. 

He doesn't quite doze, but he drifts a little, relaxed with the warm weight of Grantaire at his side and the reassuring voices of his friends around him. He's not sure how much time has passed when Combeferre's voice rouses him, suddenly sharp as he demands, "Why are you doing that?" 

Enjolras freezes and blinks his eyes open. "Doing what?" 

Combeferre lays a hand over Enjolras's, where he has the pads of his fingers pressed into the muscle between his shoulder and neck. "You're rubbing at it. Why?" 

"It's sore." Enjolras gives him a lopsided smile. "From the injection, remember?" 

"No." If anything, Combeferre's voice is only getting more urgent, not less. "You were rubbing your arm earlier." He lays a hand on Enjolras's arm, just over the bandage. " _That_ was from the injection. They can cause discomfort, but the pain wouldn't radiate all the way up to your neck." He turns Enjolras's hand up and presses two fingers to the inside of his wrist, then lays the back of his hand against Enjolras's brow and says, very careful and very precise, "Fuck." 

"Éponine's been rubbing off on you," Enjolras says, but Combeferre isn't paying any attention. 

He grabs Grantaire's arm and drags him around to face Enjolras. "What are his eyes doing?" 

"My eyes aren't doing anything. What are you talking about?" 

Grantaire frowns and leans toward Enjolras, takes his chin between his fingers and turns his head so that he's facing Grantaire, not Combeferre. "Stop blinking," he says quietly. "Look at me." 

Enjolras scowls at him. "I'm fine." 

Grantaire twists, looking back and up at Combeferre. "His pupils are even but blown wider than would be expected from this level of light." 

"It's dark in here," Enjolras protests. "You broke the lights." 

"It's not _that_ dark." 

"Fuck," Combeferre says again, and then he's gone, running, and Enjolras is left staring at Grantaire. 

"I'm not poisoned," Enjolras tells him. "This isn't what poison would feel like." Mostly, he just feels tired, and his arm is sore, up into his shoulder and his neck, and if this poison it's more irritating than it is debilitating. 

Combeferre returns before Grantaire has a chance to reply, dragging Joly and Floreal along with him. He's got Joly by the arm and Floreal by the back of her collar and he throws her down so hard she falls onto her knees in front of Enjolras. _"What did it do to him?"_

Joly lowers himself down more carefully, grimacing, and Enjolras would tell him to spare his hips the strain and himself the discomfort, but there's a terrible look on Combeferre's face that makes him swallow back his protests and submit as Joly runs him through the same assessments Combeferre did, checking his pulse and his temperature and his eyes. 

Floreal looks irate for just an instant until her gaze drops to the edge of the bandage peeking out beneath the edge of Enjolras's sleeve. She twists despite the grip Combeferre still has on the back of her shirt, looks at the container of medicine she'd brought with her and at the remains of the broken ampule lying on the bed beside. 

"Oh," she says quietly and looks back at Enjolras. Her eyes have gone wide and dark with sympathy and that, more than anything, makes Enjolras fear. "I meant to warn you. I didn't expect you to just jump into it like that, but I suppose that's my mistake." She grimaces and casts a brief glance back over her shoulder at Combeferre, twisting the hem of her shirt between her hands. "The virus persists within you because your immune system doesn't recognize it as an invader. The medication helps alert your immune system to the threat, so you can fight it off. It means it's working, but, well. You're going to feel rather ill, I'm afraid, until it's run its course and killed the virus off." 

"How ill?" Joly demands, fishing a stethoscope out of his kit. 

Floreal hesitates. "You're probably going to want to get him to bed," she says at last. "While he's still ambulatory." 

"Enjolras?" Grantaire's voice is sharp with worry. The hand he lays on Enjolras's arm is cautious, concerned. 

The ache up his neck has reached his jaw, and is spreading across his torso, making his chest feel tight and his lungs heavy. Or maybe that's just the fear. Now that he's feeling the effects of it, whatever _it_ is, it's coming on fast and strong. "I think," he says carefully. "I think we had better do as she says." 

Grantaire and Combeferre help him to his feet and take some of his weight as they help him move across the barracks to his own bed. Enjolras curls on top of it and lets the others work at pulling the blanket out from underneath him so they can drape it over him. Grantaire sits at his side, close enough they're touching, which is a comfort, and strokes his hand over Enjolras's hair in a steady, soothing rhythm. 

Combeferre drops to a knee beside the bed and grips Enjolras's hand in his. "Joly and I are going to see if we can find a way to help alleviate the symptoms. We'll have you feeling like yourself soon enough. Just rest now." 

Enjolras is so tired. He can't keep his eyes open, but he tightens his fingers around Combeferre's, slurs out, "I'm sorry. You don't have to forgive me, but I'm sorry." 

Combeferre catches his breath. "You're not dying, Enjolras." His voice is hard enough, adamant enough, that Enjolras wonders if he's trying to convince himself as well. "She's not going to let anything happen to you." 

"You can't know that." The bed feels very inviting, and the weight of Grantaire's hand on his head is a comfort that drags him down to sleep despite himself. "If it's poison--" 

Grantaire speaks from beside him. "If it's poison, there's an antidote. If it isn't, there will be medications to control the side effects. She _is_ going to help you, Enjolras, with one or the other. She acted to save her own life before. Self-preservation can be a very motivating force." 

His words stay gentle and soothing throughout. The gentle comfort of his stroking hand never even changes its rhythm, and for the first time Enjolras fears him, just a little. 

"You've taken care of me," Grantaire whispers to him as exhaustion drags him under. "Now it's my turn."


	14. Chapter 14

He sleeps fitfully, with only brief moments of awareness. The cloying feeling that he's suffocating, his clothes sticky with sweat and plastered to his skin, and he thrashes to be free of it all until there's a cool, wet rag pressed to the back of his neck and the soothing murmur of Grantaire's voice in his ear. 

The next time, he's freezing, curled to a ball beneath his blanket and shivering violently, his teeth chattering. His whole body hurts as though every muscle has been overworked and mistreated. When he burrows under the blanket seeking relief from the chill that's seeping into his bones, someone hushes him and a weight settles over him. More blankets, heavy ones, and the weight of it is steadying but even with them piled high, he still can't stop shivering. 

A clamor of voices rouses him later, angry, arguing in that low, violent way of people trying not to speak too loud and unaware that they're failing. "How _long_ , though," and "if any harm befalls him, it'll fall on you next" and "--not _my_ fault he dosed himself while my back was turned, I'd have warned him if I'd had the chance" and "no, you're not going anywhere until we've seen this through to its end" and "if I meant to poison him, don't you think I'd have picked one that worked a little faster?" 

When he wakes again, his eyes are gritty and full of sand, his mouth tastes foul, and his whole body hurts with a low, throbbing ache. He's sweating again, but this time he's pretty sure it's because of the half-dozen blankets that are still piled on top of him. 

He means to sit up, to seek out his friends and reassure them that he's well, or at least not dead. In the end, all he really manages is a twitch beneath the blankets and a moan that sounds, even to his own ears, like maybe he is dying after all. 

There are hands on him immediately, pushing back the blankets and pressing to his brow and his cheek and the side of his neck. "Enjolras?" That's Grantaire, sounding so terribly concerned that Enjolras would face any discomfort to reassure him. He blinks his eyes open, despite the grit and the weariness and the harshness of the lights. Grantaire's looming over him, his face drawn with worry. There are bags under his eyes that mean he hasn't been sleeping like he ought to, like he needs to. 

Enjolras dredges up a strained smile from somewhere. "You didn't think you'd be rid of me that easily, did you?" 

Grantaire shakes his head, but there's a shine in his eyes that belies the truth. "How do you feel?" 

"Like I've been dragged through an asteroid field." He finishes the job Grantaire started, pushing the blankets the rest of the way off of himself, and gets upright with an awkward sort of roll that ends with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed and his elbows braced on his knees as he leans his weight against them, gasping for air as though he's just run halfway across the ship and back. "But I'm not dead." 

A smile flits across Grantaire's face, faint but genuine. "I am very glad," he says, just as faint, and reaches out to grip Enjolras's hand. 

"You know what that means, don't you? If it wasn't poison, then Floreal was telling the truth. Whatever this virus is that Security's passed around, I'm cured." He wraps his fingers tighter around Grantaire's hand. "I can see you, _really_ see you." 

Hope flares behind Grantaire's eyes even as his smile dies. He pulls his hand carefully from Enjolras's. "Yes, well. That's all very good in theory, but there's no way to be sure it's worked without testing it, and I think you've taken quite enough risks with your life for one day." 

"I'm not--" Enjolras stops and jerks upright. "One day? It's only been one day?" 

"Not quite twenty-four hours," Joly says, coming over with a pill bottle in his free hand. He sits on the bed bedside Enjolras and leans his cane up against the bedpost so he can shake two fat, yellow pills into his palm. He holds them out. "Floreal says you'll be fighting it off a while longer, but we found some medications to help with the symptoms, at least. Take those, they'll help keep the fever at bay. Muscle aches?" 

Enjolras groans. "Every one of them." 

Joly gives a sharp nod. "They'll help with that, too." He makes a gesture, and Grantaire presses a cup of water into Enjolras's hand. 

Enjolras swallows them both down, then finishes the water, as well, before giving Joly a bemused look. " _Floreal says,_ does she? Since when do you take her word for it?" 

"Since she didn't kill you," Joly says. "Since she proved invaluable in locating Grantaire's medical record on the drives. We've got a drug regimen that should be working much better for him now." 

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, surprised, and then at Joly. "You've been busy." 

Joly smiles a little. "Well, you were in good hands. And it was pretty unanimous amongst the group that no one was willing to let Floreal leave until we knew you'd be all right, so I figured I might as well make use of her while she was here." 

"I'm all right," Enjolras assures him. "Has she left yet?" 

Joly's smile turns wry. "Oddly enough, she doesn't seem keen to." 

Enjolras nods once, and reaches out to grab onto Grantaire's arm. "Help me up? I want to go talk to her." 

Grantaire does so, looking grave. Even once Enjolras is on his feet, Grantaire doesn't let go of him, but walks at his side as though he's feeble, or as though Grantaire fears he might take a fall with every step. 

Enjolras can't even mind it. He's stiff and sore and he walks with a shuffling gait. He _feels_ as though he's aged fifty years, and he's more grateful than he is anything else to have Grantaire there to lean on when his muscles and his joints protest the movement. 

Floreal is sitting cross-legged on the bed the drives have been set up on, a datascreen that Enjolras assumes is her own connected to the drives and open on her lap. She has a frown drawn between her brows as she looks at the 'screen, but she glances up as Grantaire brings Enjolras near and the frown smoothes away. "You're looking better." 

He sinks down onto the mattress in front of her, facing her. "I'm feeling terrible, thanks." 

She gestures at the drives between them. "I've just been looking through these. What you've found... I can hardly believe it. I knew there were things they were keeping from... well, everyone. They told us it was for everyone's benefit, that there was knowledge that was too dangerous to be shared. But this... there's so _much_ of it. I never would have imagined." 

"You helped find Grantaire's medical record, I hear. I'm grateful for that." 

Her expression twists, turning annoyed. "I didn't do it for your gratitude." 

It's so obvious that Enjolras has to laugh at that. "No. I know you didn't. But I'm grateful all the same." He sobers as he watches her, her fingers worrying at the edge of her datascreen, her gaze dropping down to it every few seconds, like she's compelled to return to it and only grudgingly tolerating Enjolras's distraction. "You can download files you're interested in taking a closer look in, for when you don't have access to the drives, if you like. That's what we've been doing." 

The frown returns in an instant, deeper and more belligerent than before. "Why wouldn't I have access to the drives?" 

"They're not connected to the wireless. We thought it too great a risk that Security might discover them, if they were, and use it to find their way back to us. When you go back--" 

"I'm not going back," she says suddenly, violently. She snaps her 'screen closed and sits as though she's braced for a fight. Her eyes blaze and her hands tighten at her sides. 

Enjolras leans back, bracing his hands behind himself on the bed, and blinks at her, nonplussed. 

"I told you, I want to _help_ you. I want to be part of what you're doing. That doesn't mean dropping off a box of antivirals and then going back to life as I've always known it." She pulls a hand through her hair and grabs onto a fistful of it at the nape of her neck. Every time he'd seen her before, she'd had her hair pulled back in a neat bun, as severe as he'd expect from a Security officer. She's let it down sometime between when he fell ill and now, though, and it falls loose and a little disheveled around her face. It gives her a softer look, but it doesn't do anything to soften the temper snapping in her eyes. "Even if I wanted to, do you think I could now, knowing what I do? I'm not that good a liar." 

"You're going to have to be," Enjolras says quietly. If he were speaking to one of his friends, he'd reach out and clasp her hand, he'd lean forward and be earnest. He doesn't think she'd welcome his touch, though, so he stays where he is and is earnest, but also insistent. "You say you want to help us, and I'm inclined to believe you're sincere. But what exactly do you bring to the table that we don't already have? You can't hack like Éponine and me, you're not a physician like Joly or Combeferre. And even if you were, we already have those areas covered. What we lack, what we _need_ , is the insight and leverage you have with Security. If you cut ties, you're going to be hindering us, not helping." 

Floreal's face flushes red as he speaks. When he's finished, she looks like she's ready to take a swing at him. "Do you know what Security does when they're betrayed by one of their own? They won't bother with detainment, that's for sure. More likely they'll just shove me out an airlock and make an example of me. I _stole_ those antivirals for you, if you'll recall. Stole their greatest secret right out from under their nose and distributed it to those who would stand against them. They'll comb the video when they realize the case is missing and it won't take them long to find the trail and follow it back to me. I'm no good to you at all if I'm floating, now am I?" 

"Video can be lost." Enjolras turns, enough to catch Grantaire's eye. "You could do that, couldn't you? Sort through the archives and delete or corrupt any video records that would implicate Floreal?" 

Grantaire looks troubled. "I could, in theory. It would take time. And if I missed anything at all, even just a fraction of a second--" 

Enjolras reaches out to squeeze his hand in reassurance. He keeps hold of it, and turns to face Floreal again. "You'll tell him what to look for, and where. Tell him where you went, what cameras might have spotted you, what's out of the ordinary and what's to be expected from your daily routine." 

"Even if I did, and even if he did succeed in clearing all record of me from the surveillance, it won't do you any good. The case is still gone, and it won't take long for an inventory check to turn up that they're missing. Once it does..." She shakes her head. "They'll look for evidence of the theft, and when they realize that it's all been systematically destroyed, they'll put the whole ship on lockdown. They'll toss every barrack, break down every door, until they find it. And what do you suppose they'll find when they get here?" She tips her head towards Grantaire. " _Him._ He'll end up right back where he started, and the rest of you will fare considerably worse. And if you don't care for your own skins, then you might have a care for the rest of the ship, everyone who's going to be harmed when Security tears through their barracks searching for those drugs. You don't think you're the only ones engaging in low-level violations under their noses, do you? You'll bring down sanctions or worse on everyone here who possess contraband or who's made unauthorized 'screen modifications. They'll all suffer for it." 

"They won't," Enjolras says quietly. Beside him, Grantaire is tense as a wire, caught up in the tale Floreal is spinning of widespread suffering brought on by their own hands. Enjolras strokes circles over the back of his wrist with his thumb. It's in his nature to worry for the safety of everyone on board the ship. It's in his programming, in point of fact, but he wouldn't have volunteered for what Security did to him if he hadn't been predisposed to it. "They won't," Enjolras says again, firmer, not for Floreal's benefit but for Grantaire's. "They won't need to search, because you're going to leave them evidence pointing straight to us." 

Floreal pauses in the act of pulling her hair over her shoulder and twisting it into a coil. She stares at him for a long, long moment, fingers tight around her dark hair. "What in all the heavens makes you think I'd do something like that? I didn't betray you before and I'm not about to do it now." 

"You'll do it because it's what we need, and you came to us with promises to help. Did you mean it?" 

"I fail to see how delivering you into Security's hands is any help at all." 

"If it's a decoy," Grantaire says suddenly, his hand going tight in Enjolras's. "If you help them make sure they're _gone_ before Security comes for them--" 

" _Us,_ " Enjolras says gently, pulling Grantaire's hand into his lap. He meets Grantaire's startled glance with an offer of a smile. "Not _them_. You're our friend, you know." He nudges Grantaire's shoulder with his own, rocking him a little, and puts a grin into his words to lighten the atmosphere. "We've claimed you as one of our own, so now I'm afraid you're stuck with us, like it or not." 

Grantaire's smile is slow and so genuine, so honestly pleased. As though he thought there were some possibility that they all might meet him and know him and work together to free him, and then to _save_ him, and somehow come out of it all not caring for him just as fiercely as they care for one another. 

Enjolras just leans in against him, shoulder to shoulder, and keeps hold of his hand. After a moment Grantaire ducks his head and clears his throat, and then addresses Floreal again. "If you help us make sure we're gone first," he says quietly, and his lips curve on the words that include him amongst their number. "Lead Security to us, but only after it's too late, and we've already gone." 

"Gone _where_ , exactly?" Floreal twists her hair up at the back of her head and jabs pins through it, and all the while she stares at Grantaire as though she thinks he's lost his mind. 

"Wherever you tell us," Enjolras answers. "You know Security better than any of us. You'd know where they're likely to search for us, once they discover we've left the barracks, and where they'd overlook. You tell us where to go, and we'll go there." 

Floreal just looks at him. She holds his gaze for a long moment, and as she does her expression transforms in quiet, subtle ways. From belligerence to resignation to understanding, to something quiet and somber. "You won't ever be able to come back," she says. 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and lets out a breath. "I know." 

"How exactly do you all intend to live without access to the ship's infrastructure? Without _anything?_ How long do you expect it to be able to last? It's not a long-term solution." 

"I know," he says again. "It doesn't need to last forever. It just needs to last until we've touched down." 

That's always where this has been heading, hasn't it? It feels like it's been inevitable from the very start, even when he didn't realize this was the direction they were going. Certainly from the moment that Enjolras decided he couldn't allow Grantaire to remain in his prison, their fates were sealed. However this all turns out, it's far too late to turn from their path now, and going back is unthinkable. The only way is forward. 

Grantaire goes tense against Enjolras at his words. Floreal leans back, her hands free now that her bun's fixed back in place, and takes a swift, startled breath. "We have no reason to believe that that planet is actually capable of sustaining life." 

"We've no reason to believe that it _isn't_." 

She lets out her breath and closes her eyes. "They're going to fight you. They're going to fight you hard." 

"They always have." 

"No, you don't understand. What you've seen so far is child's play. If you do this you're going to threaten every scrap of power they've managed to acquire for themselves over the past generations. They'll hunt you down like dogs, and they won't be merciful when they find you." 

"We have to try," Enjolras says quietly. "We can't all live like this forever. It has to end eventually, that was the whole point behind the voyage. Why not now?" 

"Why not," she echoes faintly, and laughs a little, bringing one hand up to her mouth. She looks at Enjolras like she thinks he's mad, and she think she's mad too by association. "All right," she says. "All right. I'll help you find somewhere to hide, and I'll implicate you in the theft if you're sure that's what you want from me. But it's going to take time, and in the meanwhile, you lot have work to do, too." She looks over at Grantaire and holds his gaze. "You need to sort through the video and make sure I'm not on it. If you miss a single frame, they'll find it and they'll come for me, so be quick, but be _thorough_." 

"I will," Grantaire promises solemnly. 

"As for the rest of you, that antiviral is going to be more important now than ever. You won't have much to do here but pack your things and wait anyway, so you may as well make use of it and get everyone dosed." 

" _Everyone?_ " Enjolras says. "No, that won't work. We can compensate for one of our group being at less than peak condition, but we can't all be under the weather. If Security comes--" 

"They won't," Floreal says fiercely. Her bun isn't is pristine as it has been. It's a little loose, and strands of hair fall out to curl against her cheeks, and it gives her a wild look as she stares him down. "You need to trust me. And you need to get everyone dosed, now. If you do this--" She cuts herself off and looks at Enjolras unblinking for a moment. " _When_ you do this, Security's going to come after you hard. When they realize how you're managing to keep from activating the virus, they're going to make it a priority to break that." She gestures at Grantaire and the pendant from Feuilly he still wears around his neck, casting the projection that keeps them all safe. "You don't want all your friends to be ill? If Security gets their hands on that, they'll all be _dead_." 

Grantaire clears his throat quietly and tightens his hand on Enjolras's to get his attention. "The medications Joly gave you helped, haven't they?" 

"To an extent. I'm not fully recovered, though, not by a long shot. If Security beat down our door right now, I wouldn't be capable of running from them." 

"You could," Grantaire says, serenely confident, though Enjolras isn't sure his faith is justified. "But Joly can find better medicines, or better combinations. Or he can give them earlier -- we weren't able to give them to you until we realized what was happening, but if we're forewarned he can do it as a prophylactic measure. It will help, I think." 

"You traitor," Enjolras says softly, warmly and without pulling away from Grantaire, so he'll know he mostly doesn't mean it. He rubs his thumbs over the middle of his brow, where tension is gathering and a headache is building, and heaves a sigh. "I'll talk with the others," he says to Floreal. "But I'm not going to make this decision for them. It's their choice. I'm not going to force anyone to take a risk they're not comfortable with." 

Floreal's lips purse and her fingers drum against her thigh. She looks none too pleased by the uncertainty, but after a moment she gives a sharp nod. "You'd better get to work, then," she says, rising to her feet. "And I'll do the same. If you need to contact me--" 

"Through Grantaire is best. He can send messages to your 'screen without an ident number, so if Security is monitoring you it won't lead them back to us until we're ready." 

Floreal's smile is thin, but not entirely insincere. "Or vice versa, if they're already monitoring you." 

"That, too." 

"I'll send you a message," Grantaire tells Floreal. "So you have something you can reply to if you need to initiate contact with us." 

"Don't worry if it says it failed to deliver," Enjolras adds, remembering the first time he tried. "He'll still see it." 

Floreal gives them both a long, considering look. "You know," she says at length, thoughtful. "I do believe Security is underestimating you all. This might just actually be possible." 

"It is." Grantaire glows bright with conviction, and Enjolras could kiss him right there. 

"I'll be in touch, then," Floreal says, and lets herself out. 

Enjolras watches for a moment as she strides down the corridor, bold and confident and showing no sign that she'd just betrayed Security, or agreed to betray them even further. Then he slides the barracks door shut and secures the bolt. "We'd better get everyone together," he says to Grantaire. "So we only have to tell this once." 

*

They all push two of the bunks together and clamber on to them like they have before, a close tangle of arms and limbs, arms pressed together and heads resting on shoulders and hands reached out to clasp or just to touch one another. They're all quiet, attentive, as Enjolras recounts his conversation with Floreal. There's a murmur through the group when he mentions leaving, and more than a few unhappy frowns. 

"We can't stay here, you know we can't," he says quietly. "Security will come for us, one way or another. And if they come here..." He looks around the barracks, this place that's been the only thing they've had to call home for years. "It's a trap. If they come and we're here, we won't have anywhere to go. They'll bottle us in and drag us all off to detainment." 

He waits until he sees the understanding in their eyes, the reluctant acknowledgment. And then he pulls Floreal's case of medications onto his lap and rolls an ampule between his fingers. The glass is cool and smooth against his skin. Everyone watches him as he explains Floreal's suggestion about the antiviral, about dosing everyone together. 

"I don't like it," Éponine says, frowning. "What if Security finds us faster than she anticipates, and comes while we're all incapacitated? What if her nerve fails and she betrays us to them? We can't all be left in a position of vulnerability, it's too great a risk." 

"The argument could be made," Bossuet says quietly, "that we're already all in a position of vulnerability, considering--" He gestures to Grantaire, to the pendant around his neck. "That projection is the only thing protecting us, and machinery can break, or be broken. If that happens and we're taken by surprise, we're all dead anyway." He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. "I'd rather be detained than dead, when it comes down to it. Dead's irreversible." 

"Detainment's not exactly ever a temporary measure," Bahorel says, while Musichetta and Joly hug Bossuet tight around the middle and look troubled by the idea of him in a detainment cell. 

"I'm not going to force anyone," Enjolras says when they've all had the opportunity to voice their concerns and debate it. He sets the box down on the bed, in easy reach of everyone. "If you want it, come get a vial. Joly, you have enough of the medications to combat the side effects for anyone who wants it, don't you?" 

Joly nods and pulls his medical kit up onto his lap. "We have enough for everyone." He starts pulling out vials and syringes and pill bottles. "Anyone who wants it can come to me and I'll administer them. Then Combeferre can administer the antiviral." He glances over his shoulder at Combeferre, an eyebrow raised in question. Combeferre nods and reaches out for some of his syringes. "It'll be faster that way, more efficient." 

Enjolras settles back against the bed's post, an arm curled around Grantaire's waist to keep him close, and watches somberly as they all mill around, making their decisions and lining up before Joly, and then before Combeferre. 

In the end, they all take an ampule and join the lines. Éponine's the very last, and she looks at the tiny bit of glass between her fingers like she hates it, but she takes it all the same. 

"You don't have to," Enjolras tells her, low, voice pitched so it will go no farther than her. "No one will force you, or think ill of you if you don't." 

"What, and end up playing nursemaid beside you to everyone else as they fall ill? I don't think so." Her smile is lopsided and doesn't reach her eyes at all. "I'll take my chances with Security." 

"We'll keep you safe," Enjolras promises. 

Her smile turns a little sharper, a little more genuine. "I'm counting on it." 

In an hour, everyone has received their injections. An hour after that, the barracks falls preternaturally quiet as the medications take effect, and they all fall ill, and curl up in their bunks, exhausted and feverish. 

Enjolras moves with Grantaire around the room, checking in on each of them, tucking blankets around those who've come uncovered. Enjolras presses the back of his hand to their brows and tries not to worry when their skin burns against his own. He brings cup after cup of water, and crouches at his friends' bedsides and encourages them to drink sips, to keep themselves hydrated as the fever rages through them and tries its best to dry them out. 

A hand falls on his shoulder and he startles, then turns to look at Grantaire behind him. He's already got a smile fixed on his face, but Grantaire is solemn. "Go rest," he says, hooking his hand beneath Enjolras's arm to try to pull him to his feet. "You need it as much as they do." 

Enjolras shakes his head. "They need to be looked after." 

"And so do you." He guides Enjolras up onto his feet and toward his bunk, somehow both infinitely gentle and yet utterly resolute. "I can look after them, and you." 

Enjolras resists when they reach his bunk. "What about you?" He lifts a hand and brushes his thumb over the shadows beneath Grantaire's eyes. "You look as though you haven't slept in days." 

Even Grantaire's smile looks weary. "I'm used to functioning without much sleep, remember?" 

"That was before--" 

" _Enjolras_." Grantaire cups his face in his hands, his touch soft as a whisper. "They need you. They need you alert, to keep them safe." 

Enjolras lets out a long breath. "If Security comes..." 

"I shall sound the alarm, of course." He pushes Enjolras down into the bed and spreads his blankets out over him. "Sleep. They'll need you rested when they wake." 

He's bone-weary with exhaustion, has been for hours but hasn't allowed himself to acknowledge it because his friends needed him. Now, with his pillow beneath his cheek and Grantaire's hand tender in his hair, it drags him down like a weight. "Stay with me," he says, closing his fingers around Grantaire's wrist. "Just for a minute." 

"Of course I will." 

Enjolras shuts his eyes, but he's not yet asleep when he feels the bed shift beneath him, Grantaire moving beside him and then the careful press of a kiss against his head. He falls asleep smiling, feeling safe and secure even though he knows they're anything but.


	15. Chapter 15

Enjolras doesn't get to sleep long -- there's too much preoccupying his thoughts for them to allow him much respite, and when he wakes a few hours later, feeling groggy and wool-headed but at least capable of keeping his eyes open once more, Grantaire gives him a look of thin-lipped disapproval but doesn't try to press the issue. 

The others are growing restless, the quiet of before broken now by quiet noises of discomfort or distress. Enjolras scarcely has a chance to rub the grit from his eyes before he's back to moving amongst the bunks, checking on his friends and seeing to their comfort. He strips back blankets from those whose clothes are soaked through with sweat, piles them high on the ones whose teeth chatter even as they curl into a tight, miserable ball. He wipes sweat from their brows and brings water around, rousing them each in turn just enough to encourage them to drink. Grantaire comes around after him with the same pills that Enjolras was given when he woke to ease the symptoms, and coaxes the others to swallow them down. 

It doesn't happen all at once, but the others rise over the course of a few hours, in ones and twos to begin with, Cosette first and Bossuet shortly after her. And soon they're recovering faster than Enjolras can check in on them, and the barracks fills once more with the sounds of conversation and good-natured bickering over who gets to use the shower first, and wash the sweat of their illness off of themselves. 

Enjolras feels as though he can breathe for the first time all day. He sits in the middle of it all, on the floor with his back against the edge of a bunk, and just listens to it all around him, the sound of his friends, of home, of _life_. 

Grantaire comes around with a glass of water in each hand, and presses one into Enjolras's and frowns at him until he drinks it, all of it down in one long gulp. When Enjolras reaches for the other, brows lifted in a question -- _Will you pour that one down my throat too?_ \-- Grantaire pulls it away and shakes his head. 

"For Joly," he says. "To take his pills." 

No one else has needed another dose. Everyone else is roused and looking functional again, if not quite human, but Joly is still on the bunk he shares with Bossuet and Musichetta, both of them sitting close beside him as he lies curled in a ball of misery. 

Enjolras reaches a hand up to Grantaire, and Grantaire grasps it and helps pull him to his feet without needing to ask. They go to Joly together, and Enjolras only has to glance at him to know. He holds a hand out to stop Grantaire as he shakes the same fat, yellow pills they've been giving everyone into his palm. 

Enjolras drops to a crouch beside the bed, right up by Joly's head. "It's not the illness, is it?" he asks quietly, and is very careful not to touch him. When Joly's like this, it'll do more harm than good. "It's the pain." 

Joly looks up at him through one eye. There's tension drawn in the lines of his face, in the strained way he smiles and how he only pushes himself half up onto one arm to answer. "If someone's got a spare pelvis lying around, I'd be happy to take it off their hands." 

Enjolras smiles a little. It's an old joke, and if Joly is capable of humor, then he's probably not so bad off that all touching is off-limits. "If I see one lying about, it's yours." He brushes his fingers through Joly's hair and wishes there were more he could do to comfort. "What happened? Did you overwork yourself, giving injections to everyone?" 

Joly shakes his head, as much as he can with half of his face pressed into the pillow. "It's the antiviral, or the effects of it, in any case. This happens when I get sick. My immune system kicks in to take care of one problem, and ends up making half a dozen others flare up in the process." He breathes, slow and careful. "It'll settle down as the last of the illness does." 

"You have pain medicine in your kit, don't you? Is there something I can get for you?" 

He shakes his head again. "Anything less than narcotics won't touch it. And narcotics will make me muddled. I need to be clear-headed." 

"You can't even sit up. What good will clear-headedness do you if you can't do anything more than lie there and snark at Security, if they come?" 

Joly laughs quietly. It makes his breath catch, but it doesn't make his smile dim. "A sharp tongue is a dangerous weapon indeed, don't underestimate it." 

Enjolras smiles in return, but can't quite bring himself to mean it. "You know none of us will leave you here, if it comes to it." 

It's that, more than anything, that gets him to push himself upright and reach for his kit. He sits canted to one side, and gasps when reaching for his kit shifts his weight too far to the other, and Enjolras hurries to retrieve the kit for him, before he can hurt himself any further. His intent wasn't to encourage Joly to suffer a greater pain than he was already enduring, but what he said was the truth. None of them would leave him behind, if the worst were to happen. They'd stay with him, and be detained with him if it came to that, and that's the last thing Joly would want. 

He pulls a vial out of the kit, draws its contents up into a syringe, and injects it into his own thigh before he slumps back against Bossuet, who's slid in behind him and wraps his arms around Joly's middle in an enveloping embrace. 

"There," Joly murmurs. His face is already going slack with relief. "No one's allowed to have a medical emergency for the next few hours, all right?" 

Enjolras smiles and, now that he's feeling better, reaches to take his hand. "We'll do our very best, I promise." 

Joly nods and squeezes his hand back. It's not as strong a grip as it would usually be, but it's something. "Give me an hour to get over the worst of the nausea," he says, "and then I'll be good to go for another two, if we're lucky." 

"Just rest." Enjolras rises and leaves him in Musichetta and Bossuet's care. "That's all we need from you right now." 

An hour later, when everyone else has finished using their water allotments to shower and so Enjolras has finally allowed himself a turn, he comes out of the bathroom feeling refreshed and significantly less gross to find Grantaire waiting for him just beyond the door, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Enjolras catches him by the arm to hold him steady. "What is it?" 

"Floreal sent a message." 

Enjolras takes a sharp breath and leads him aside, so they're not blocking the access to the bathroom. "What does she say? We can't move already, everyone's not recovered enough yet." 

"No. Not yet. She says she's working on locating a place for us. And--" He hesitates, and his lips quirk up in a slight smile. "And a few choice threats to impress upon me how urgent it is that I ensure I've cleared her from every from of Security's vid feeds." 

Enjolras scowls at the thought of her threatening with Grantaire with so much as a harsh word. "What sort of threats?" 

Grantaire huffs out a breath. Enjolras glances sidelong at him, but can't be sure whether it's irritation or amusement or something else completely. "Never mind them, she doesn't mean anything by it. It's just her way." He catches Enjolras's hand in his own and threads their fingers together. "The point is, if she's worried about coming to their attention, then she's starting to put the pieces into play. They haven't realized that the case is missing yet, or she wouldn't have to wonder if I'd succeeded in clearing all record of her from the feeds. But they'll notice it soon, and we'll need to be ready." 

"We will be," Enjolras says, and tries to sound like he believes it. They will be, because they have to be. They don't have any other choice. 

*

A day later, Enjolras is feeling almost recovered from the aftereffects of the antiviral, and the others nearly so. He's pacing the width of the barracks, trying to work out the restless energy that burns through him, that's been building for days, when Grantaire abruptly makes a startled sound and looks up from his borrowed datascreen, staring off at nothing, at the blank barracks wall. 

Enjolras turns back from his pacing and drops down next to him. "What is it? Is something happening?" 

Grantaire shakes his head but doesn't focus. "No. Another message from Floreal." 

"What does she say?" 

"It's a location. A series of storage compartments down on tau tevel." 

" _Tau?_ " Enjolras lets the air out of his lungs all at once. "That's practically buried in the core of the ship. Do you think she could have put us farther away from where we're going to need to be if she'd tried?" 

"I think if we're trying to stay safe and undiscovered, that's probably a wise choice." 

"We're trying to stop Security, too," Enjolras says. "If we have to sneak across half the ship every time, that's going to increase our chances of being found. Tell her we need something--" 

Grantaire lays a hand on his arm, silencing him with a gentle touch. Enjolras takes a breath and turns to face him, and Grantaire looks at him, quiet and patient and somehow it feels like a condemnation. "We all need to be safe, first," he says. "And we aren't here, not anymore. We need somewhere to live, somewhere to _hide_ , and she's found us that. We can figure out the rest of it once we're safe." 

Enjolras sighs and brings a hand up to scrub over his forehead. He slumps, his shoulders bowing, and Grantaire slides the hand from his arm up to curve along his jaw. "Every day, we're leaving that planet farther and farther behind." 

"We can circle back. We can find another planet. But we can't do any of that if we're all detained." 

He doesn't say it, but he must be thinking it -- that they won't be able to do any of that if Security finds Grantaire, and returns him to his prison, either. Enjolras lets out a long breath, and tries to let his anger out with it. He nods at length, and is graced by Grantaire's smile. "Okay. Tau level. Ask her when." 

Grantaire's gaze goes distant, and a moment later he makes a sharp sound and says, "All right, I've asked her. I'll tell you when she answers me." 

Enjolras leans his head on Grantaire's shoulder and stays close by as Grantaire returns to what he'd been doing on the datascreen before Floreal's message had interrupted him. 

*

Floreal's reply comes later that evening, and Enjolras knows when it arrives because Grantaire takes a sharp breath and goes very still beside him, for no reason at all that Enjolras can identify. He turns to Grantaire and touches the back of his wrist to gain his attention. "Floreal?" 

He nods once, sharp and jerky. He's still tense, nearly vibrating beneath Enjolras's hand, and Enjolras knows this must be it. Grantaire's never had a reaction like this, all the other times that she's messaged him. Still, he asks: "What does she say?" 

"Tonight. She's coming for us tonight. Security's nearly found their way to the evidence she's planted that will lead them to us, and we can't put it off any longer. Not without risking everything." 

"Okay." Enjolras lets out his breath carefully and turns to look out over the barracks. They're ready. They're not in top form, not yet, but they've all been doing better. Even Joly has been improving. He still grimaces more than he usually does as he walks, and leans more of his weight onto his cane than is usually necessary, but he hasn't been needing the narcotics to function, and that's both an incredible improvement and an immense relief. He may suffer for it, once they've reached tau level, but that's never put him off before. 

They're well enough to make it. They have to be. 

They don't have much to do, to kill time until evening. They're not bringing much with them, and what they are has been packed up for days. They'll bring their datascreens, of course, and a change of clothes each, and Éponine helped him disconnect the drives and bundle them up in separate packs so no one gets stuck with fifty pounds of weight on their backs. Joly is bringing his medical kit and Feuilly some of his most versatile and transportable tools, but for the most part they're packing light so they can move fast. 

It leaves the whole lot of them restless and antsy as they wait for evening to come, and Floreal with it. Éponine dusts off the wall panels that haven't been in place for years, ever since they pulled them down to give themselves access to the wiring behind them, and looks a little crestfallen as she does so, until Enjolras comes over and gives her a hug from behind. 

She goes still for a moment, and then sighs. "Don't tell me we're going to be back," she says on a low murmur. "Don't lie to me, Enjolras." 

"No." He leans his chin on her shoulder. "No, I don't expect we will. But if we do this, if everything goes right, we'll be going somewhere better." 

She laughs, choked, and pulls out of his embrace so she can turn around to face him. "There's a lot of ifs standing between us and that." 

"I know." 

"This is probably going to end terribly for all of us." 

He lets out a breath, and gives her the truth: "I know. But we have to try." 

"Yeah." She lets her head tip forward, and when she lifts it she's dredged up a smile. It's strained, but it's there, and it makes him smile back. "Yeah, I suppose we do." 

They wait and they wait, until the hour turns late and the halls outside grow quiet and all their nerves are strained to the breaking point. The silence in the barracks is tense and fragile, and more than once it's broken by an exchange that's angrier and more irritable than they usually are with one another. Enjolras can't even blame them. He wants to snap, too, at anyone who gets near enough, just so he has a vent to the tension twisting up inside him. 

Finally, when Enjolras has started to wonder if Floreal's forgotten about them, or if her decoy failed and Security's dragged her off to detainment for her theft, there's a soft knock at the door. 

It sounds deafening in the silence that's descended upon them, and they all jump, then glance at one another. They've no way to see who stands on the other side of the door, and no way of knowing that it's Floreal and not Security waiting for them. They only way to know that Floreal hasn't betrayed them just as she did Security is to open the door, and take that risk. 

Courfeyrac clears his throat, glances around at them all and offers half a crooked smile. "Well, we don't want her to think we've changed our minds," he says, trying for levity. And it's a thin attempt, but they've had too little of it for too long, and it feels like a breath of oxygen chasing off the vacuum of space. There's a sudden rush as they all start breathing again, a low murmur of laughter that's less to do with humor and more with the giddy relief of a sudden ease in the tension. 

Courfeyrac moves to the door and shoulders it open a crack, and a moment later, pushes it farther, enough to let Floreal slip on inside. 

She's got her hair pulled back and severe again and is looking very regimental as she gives the barracks a quick scan. "You're all ready?" 

They all grab their things. Enjolras takes a pack with one of the drives in addition to his own bag, and Éponine takes another. The other two are taken up by Feuilly and Bahorel, and they're all gathered in a tight group before Floreal inside of a minute. 

"We're ready," Enjolras tells her. 

She meets his gaze and holds it, then nods once. "Then let's go." 

They leave without fanfare, without ceremony, a huddled and anxious group hurrying through near-deserted halls. Their footsteps reverberated from the corridor walls, echoing strangely and making them all press closer to one another. 

"Wouldn't it have been better to leave when the halls were more populated?" Cosette asks, her hand gripped tight by Marius while Courfeyrac stays close to them both, looking ready to take on every one of Security's forces to keep the other two safe. "If Security comes upon us there'll be no blending in, and no losing them." 

Floreal gives a quiet grunt and glances back over her shoulder at them. "Maybe, if you're planning on being spotted. But I know the schedules and I know everyone's rounds, and the point here is to _not_ be seen. That'll be easier to do now, when staffing's thinner. Now hush and keep close." 

It's nerve-wracking making their way through their own level, where they at least know the halls. When they reach the stairs and follow them to the next level down, it's worse. They don't know this place, and if they were to get separated, they'd be hopelessly lost, and likely as not end up wandering around trying to find their way until Security happened upon them. There's no going back now, and while they all knew that wasn't an option, and hasn't been since they gained Grantaire his freedom, it's one thing to understand it and another entirely to be lost on an unfamiliar level and to truly _know_ that even if they wanted to, even if it were safe to return home, they wouldn't be able to find their way back to it. 

They descend, down one level to the next, and the next. The familiar, polished halls filled with living quarters and work stations give way to brushed metal and larger doors, big enough that they could all walk through side-by-side and still have room to spare, if they weren't locked shut. Enjolras remembers Grantaire saying that the space Floreal found for them was a storage compartment, and he wonders if they're going to find themselves in one of these. He shivers a little at the thought. Those massive doorways feel like a vulnerability, too large for them to be able to defend if the worst were to happen. 

Still they go lower and lower, deeper in toward the center of the ship, where the hum beneath their feet that they've lived with all their lives becomes a steady vibration and the air gets warm. They're closer to the engines that burn at the ship's heart than Enjolras had ever thought to be. He lets his hand trail against the walls as they follow behind Floreal, lets the thrumming travel through his fingers and up his arm until it feels like it's part of his bones. 

Tau level is dark, sparsely lit. The lights set into the ceilings of the corridors here are only illuminated every dozen yards, stretches of dark hallway broken up by small sections of light. It makes them all glance about warily as they follow after Floreal, and huddle in close against one another. The only sounds are the scuff of their footsteps and the quick, uneven cadence of their breathing. It feels like a tomb down here, or like a trap. 

Floreal stops them in front of a door that looks like any of the others. "Grantaire," she says as she swipes her hand over a plate set into the wall and the door's pneumatics hiss with the release of pressure. "I'm going to need you to wipe the access records of that scan, or it won't take them long to find you lot down here." 

"I will," he promises. 

The doors open slowly, with a hiss and a groan. Inside, everything is dark, cloaked in shadows. Enjolras can make out the impression of shapes, but little else. He steps forward, then looks back over his shoulder to where Grantaire is right there with him, half a step behind. "Can you turn the lights on in here?" 

He frowns in concentration and lets his gaze go distant with concentration. A moment later, a bank of lights in the hallway behind them flare on and half the group jumps. Grantaire gives a chagrined grimace. "Well, I was close," he says, and his brows pinch with a frown again. 

Another moment and then the lights within the storage compartment blaze to life. The brilliant light makes Enjolras's eyes burn and blurs his vision with sudden tears. He dashes them away and walks into the compartment, now that he can see his way. 

He expected food stores, or spare parts for the ship's systems, or clothing, any one of the hundreds of things that the ship needs adequate supplies of to function from one day to the next. Instead, he finds himself standing before some sort of machine that towers over all of them, more than two decks tall with tracks for locomotion that stand taller than even Bahorel. The compartment itself is a cavern, echoing with the soft sound of their footsteps, and its vast emptiness is broken up by the machines that rise like mountains in the old legends. 

"What is this?" he asks on a breath, drifting across the space between the giant machines. 

"The registry just says it's storage held in reserve," Floreal says with a one-shouldered shrug. "But the logs show no one's accessed these compartments in months, at the very least, so as long as you don't do something stupid you all should be able to hunker down here without being discovered." 

"Small-scale terraformers," Grantaire says abruptly, and Enjolras turns to stare at him. 

"What?" 

He jerks his chin at the machine. "That's what they are, according to my database. Small-scale terraformers, for turning inhospitable land into something a bit more habitable." 

"Land," Enjolras echoes quietly, and looks up and up and up at the machine in front of him. "That's what they meant by held in reserve. These aren't for the ship. They're for after we touch down." 

Enjolras turns to look at them again, and then at Floreal. "You said a series of storage compartments." 

She inclines her head once in a brisk nod. "The others should be this way. Follow me." 

They do so, and she leads them to a normal-sized doorway set into one wall. On the other side, they find a compartment much like how Enjolras expected the first to be, packed tight with shelves up to the ceiling, and every inch of space upon them maximized. Here, they find stasis pods of seeds and sprouts, bags of soil and fertilizer that must be meant to tide them over until the terraformers can do their job. There are half a dozen plows in one corner, and Enjolras laughs a little hysterically and skims his hand over the blade. He's read about them in the historical records, but he never thought to see more than a photograph or hologram. 

Another shelf holds tools, the sorts of which they have no use for on the ship. Hammers and nails, rasps and awls and axes and planers. There are solar-cell generators, and rows upon rows of other items, things Enjolras couldn't name, things he's never seen before in his life but that will surely serve some purpose once they're planet-side. 

"Well?" Floreal demands when he finds his way back to her. 

"It will work just fine," he says. "Thank you. How are we meant to keep from starving, though? We won't be able to go to the mess hall once they've connected your evidence to us, and there isn't much in the way of food stores down here." There are the seeds and the sprouts, but Enjolras would sooner starve before he'd eat their hope of making a home and a life for themselves, once they find a planet they can settle on. 

Floreal just smiles, though, sharp and a little sly. "I have an idea for that, too." She gestures around at the compartments, raises her voice so that it carries to everyone. "Leave your things here, you won't need them. And then come with me. You're going to need to know how to get there anyway." 

"Get where?" Enjolras asks her, letting his pack slide off his shoulders. 

"You'll see," she says, backing towards the door so she can grin at him, and that is not comforting at all. "Quickly, now, and quietly. You're going to like this."


	16. Chapter 16

Enjolras has never seen so many green, living things in one place in all his life. When he was a child, his ward-mother kept a plant in a tub in the ward's common room, a spindly trailing vine that they each took turns watering and caring for. Security approved it because of the oxygen it restored to the ship's atmosphere, and because it taught the ward's children responsibility and dedication from a tender young age, but they didn't have the water rations to spare to keep more than one alive. 

This, though. This is thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Tens of hundreds of thousands. This is upsilon level and it's unlike anything Enjolras could have even dreamed might exist on the ship. The deck stretches out in an endless plain and everywhere, everywhere he looks, it's all greenery and glowing lights and the sharp, pungent smell of fresh herbs in the air. 

The plants grow in long tunnel-shaped hydroponic frames that rotate slowly around lights running through the center, each frame set in scaffolding that rises up to the ceilings high overhead, and the scaffolding set it long, endless rows so that there's almost nothing of the ship itself that's visible, only the warm glow of the lights shining through the foliage and the occasional burst of color in fruits and vegetables that hang plump from the frames, ready to pick. 

Enjolras wants to wander forward and lose himself in this. He wants to find the place on this deck where the greenery's the thickest and the earthy smell of it all the most pungent and he wants to sit down in the middle of all that green and never leave. 

He holds himself back and turns, instead, to Floreal, who's leaning back against one of the frames with her arms crossed and a grin spread broad across her face as she watches them all, wandering forward and looking about with similar agape expressions on all of their faces. "Well? Where did you _think_ all that food they serve up in the mess hall every day comes from?" 

"Not this," Courfeyrac says, breaking off a leaf from a nearby plant and smelling it, then giving a broken laugh and turning to offer it to Combeferre. 

"If we steal food we'll lead them right back to us," Enjolras says to her. "You put us on tau to keep us away from them, but if we lead them here we lead them closer to us. They'll find us for certain." 

"There's, what, a dozen of you?" Floreal looks them all over like their number is unimpressive. "Compared to how many thousands these gardens feed? They won't notice the amount you'll have to take, not if you're smart about it. Not so long as you're not stupid enough to get caught in here." 

Enjolras turns and looks back out at the endless rows of vegetation. "Teach us what we need to know." 

She nods once and pushes away from the frame she's been leaning against as though she was only waiting for the invitation. "Don't decimate a frame all at once, obviously. Scatter your gathering out, one here, one there, so it looks like it's just the plants failing to thrive. It happens, so long as you don't concentrate it all in one area and make them think they've got a blight they won't think twice about it. And if you really want to hide your tracks..." She gestures overhead, to the frames that stretch up to the ceiling. "Gather from up there. They'll have time to repair the damage and grow back what you took before they're brought into rotation. Do that, and don't get seen, and they might never realize they're being stolen from." 

Musichetta hums and breaks off a leaf of lettuce and chews it thoughtfully. "We can do that," she says. "Tau level's too warm for them to keep for very long, but we can send parties in pairs to gather every few days." She turns to Floreal. "You can give us the information we need about when this level will be staffed, and when it will be empty enough to risk coming?" 

"Of course," Floreal says with a smile for her. "I can access the records and send them to Grantaire as soon as I'm back. In the meantime, you may as well gather enough while you're here to last yourselves a day or so. I wouldn't want your rumbling stomachs to lead Security right to you." 

It's an excuse to walk through the rows and rows of plants, and Enjolras takes it eagerly. They spread out when Floreal sighs at them, to make their gathering less noticeable. Enjolras fills his pockets with little yellow tomatoes the size of his thumbnail, and his arms with strawberries the size of his fist, red and fragrant and fresher than anything he's ever known. By the time anything is served up in the mess hall, it's been preserved and fortified and enriched with Security's calculated ideal level of nutrients, and neither looks nor tastes anything like what they've found here. The first strawberry Enjolras picks, he eats right there. He stains his fingers red with the juice and he doesn't care at all. 

When he comes back to rejoin the others, laden down with his pickings as they are with theirs, Grantaire grins at the sight of him and comes to meet him. He takes some of the strawberries from his arms, laughing about how he dare not drop and bruise them, and then he curves one hand behind Enjolras's elbow and guides him forward as he leans in. 

It takes an effort to recall himself, to not drop all his strawberries right there so he can wrap his arms around Grantaire's back and hold on to him. Grantaire's kiss is soft and sweet, and the lights around them only flicker once before he frowns into the kiss and regains control of himself, but the kiss goes on another minute until Enjolras draws back, stricken by the thought that even the overprocessed meals they're served at the mess hall is an improvement over what Grantaire has known, his nutrients delivered by conduit and stripped of all the pleasure that's to be had in eating. 

Enjolras takes a half step back, not enough for Grantaire to release him. And since Grantaire's hands are occupied, Enjolras takes one of the strawberries he's still holding, a big one that looks plump and juicy, and holds it out for Grantaire to try. 

He takes a bite and his fingers go tight around Enjolras's arm. When he opens his eyes, he looks stunned, awed. "That's--" 

"It's good, isn't it?" Bossuet comes up, slinging an arm around Grantaire's shoulders. Musichetta and Joly follow a little behind him, both looking unbearably fond. Joly even looks happier, like he's walking easier, though on the way here he limped worse than ever. "Whoever's cooking on this ship ought to be detained. Here, try one of these." He gives Grantaire an apricot, already split in two, and offers the other half to Enjolras. "Stars, we could _live_ like this." 

A flash of movement in the corner of his vision draws Enjolras's attention around, and proves to be Floreal, wheeling about to give them a look that makes the smile fall off of Enjolras's face. She stalks over and snatches two of the remaining apricots from Bossuet's hands. "I didn't risk my career, my position, my _life_ just so you lot could sit back and glut yourselves. There are tens of thousands of others on this ship who don't have this luxury, and who aren't free, and who are counting on you to make sure Security doesn't keep us floating forever, and you'd do well to remember it when you're moaning over your berries and thinking this is the sort of thing you could get _used_ to." 

"We've given up just as much," Enjolras says quietly, and takes the fruit back from her. "We haven't forgotten." 

She stares at him for a long moment, her lips tight and her expression one of restrained fury. "Fine," she snaps at last, and spins on her heel. "Come on, everyone, we're going back. We've been out here too long as it is. Gather what you've got and follow me." 

They walk with her, through the halls that lead them back to tau level, and Enjolras keeps close enough to Grantaire that their arms brush as they walk, but his attention is on the journey, on trying to remember the turns they take so they can find their way back here, and then back home again, without getting themselves lost. 

When they're back at the storage compartments, they all gather the fruits and vegetables they picked into a pile that ought to hold them over for a few days, and Enjolras crouches to help the others sort out what's most perishable and should be eaten first, until a touch on his arm draws his gaze up to Grantaire standing beside him. He jerks his head to the side and Enjolras follows the motion until he sees Floreal, standing just inside the compartment's doorway looking like she's got something on her mind. 

They go to her together, but it's Grantaire that she focuses on. "The scanners outside are linked to our biometrics. You can't open or close that door without the palm scan of a Security officer, and that's going to be a problem. Even if this area isn't often visited, it isn't completely ignored, either. You can't go leaving the doors open for anyone to come along and find you. You'll need to find a way to override the scanner, or circumvent it. I can't be here to let you in and out every time one of you wants to go for a stroll." 

"I have your ident number," Grantaire says. "I can find your baseline biometric readings with that, and use it to trick the scanner. It's just data." He gives an easy shrug, like counterfeiting the palm-print of a stranger isn't even a challenge worth getting excited about. "I'm good with data." 

A moment passes and Floreal's expression eases with the hint of a smile. "I know you are." She backs up, two steps until she's out in the corridor on the other side of the doorway. "I have to go. My shift starts soon and we can't afford for me to draw any sort of attention to myself right now. Don't take too long to figure the work-around out and get this door closed. I don't want to come off shift to hear you were all thrown into detainment while I had my back turned." 

"We'll do our best," Grantaire promises, and Floreal nods once and is gone. 

*

Grantaire spends an hour standing on the other side of the doorway, repeatedly pressing his hand to the scanner out there with a look of intense concentration about him, until without warning the heavy door slides shuts and seals with the hiss of pneumatic locks, casting everyone inside into perfect darkness. 

There's a moment of stillness, of silence, while Enjolras blinks in the dark and wonders what they're supposed to do now, and then the locks hiss again and the door slides open to reveal Grantaire on the other side again, looking triumphant. 

"Well, that's good news," Enjolras says. "Let's go see if we can find some lights in amongst all that gear, so we're not stuck stumbling about in the dark." 

They all go off together and spread out through the shelves of equipment until Éponine gives a victorious cry and calls, "Here, I've found some!" 

There's a dozen of them, packed in with what seems to be camping equipment and other temporary shelters. They're round globes that hang from a chain, and the one in Éponine's hand is glowing bright, but the others remain dark. Enjolras picks one up for himself and feels for a catch or some other way of turning it on, but it's all smooth, frosted glass. He looks at Éponine, who is looking unbearably smug. "What's the trick?" 

She grins and reaches out to take it from him, grips it firmly and then gives it a violent shake. A dim glow starts deep in the center of the globe, and steadily increases until the whole thing is shining as bright as the first. Enjolras whistles, impressed. "It's an internal switch?" 

Grantaire makes a low, dissenting sound and reaches a hand out toward Éponine. "May I?" She gives it over with a shrug and a smile, and Grantaire hefts it, testing the weight, and then turns it around and around to look at it from every angle. "They're kinetic lights. It's the motion that activates them." He gives it another shake and shows Enjolras how the glow intensifies. "Scientists modeled them after some species of Terran phytoplankton that behave similarly when agitated. They convert physical energy into light energy." He hums and hands the light back to Éponine. "They'll need to be re-activated every few hours to keep them bright, but we won't have to worry about running down their power source. It's a clever design." 

Especially, Enjolras thinks, for the transitional period between when they've landed and when they've established themselves in their new home. That's what this section of supplies seems to be for, in any case -- the camping equipment, the lights that need no power supply. Whoever planned this journey planned it well. And if Security had their way, all of this would stay down here, ignored and unused, for who knew how many more generations. Maybe forever. 

Enjolras shakes off the thought and reaches, instead, to grab some of the rest of the lights from their shelf. "Let's get these back out to the main compartment and see if we can hang them so we can actually see." 

The others help carry the rest of them out, and they string them up on the terraformers, hanging high enough that their light illuminates most of the compartment to an adequate degree, but low enough that when one starts to dim someone can reach up and give it a shake and get it glowing bright again. 

Grantaire closes the compartment door again, from the inside this time, and without the light coming in from the corridor it's a little dim inside the compartment, but nothing they can't get accustomed to. 

In any case, it's not going to be permanent, one way or another. 

*

Combeferre finds Enjolras helping Éponine crack open one of the kinetic lights -- she was making noises about seeing if she could convert the internal components into some sort of man-powered generator for their datascreens, because difficult-to-access, seldom-used storage compartments don't exactly come equipped with charging stations, and even if they did, the sudden unexplained spike in power consumption from this section of the grid would draw Security's attention and give their location away in a heartbeat. Enjolras doesn't really understand everything Éponine was saying about the potential for conversion, hardware has always been her purview, but he can help her try to get into the light to see, so he's sitting cross-legged on the compartment floor with the light tucked into the space in his lap, glowing faintly because he keeps jiggling it as he tries to find a way to open it when it possesses no catch, no seam, absolutely nothing to indicate that there's any way of getting inside at all. 

He looks up when he feels the prickle at the nape of his neck and finds Combeferre standing over them, looking grim. "There's something you need to come look at," he says, quiet, serious. 

Enjolras blinks at him twice, then hands the light off to Éponine and reaches a hand up to Combeferre, who clasps it and helps him to his feet. "You'd best show me, then." 

Combeferre leads him into the adjacent compartment, the one with all the shelves. They wind a path through them that Combeferre walks without hesitation, but that Enjolras quietly suspects will leave him hopelessly lost if he tries to find his way back to the main compartment by himself. 

Combeferre stops in front of a shelf in the middle of a row and turns back to face Enjolras. Enjolras looks at the shelf, which is the first he's seen here that doesn't have every inch of space packed with supplies. This one is packed loosely, and even has an area where a section of one of the shelves is empty, a fine layer of dust gathered upon it over the years despite the ship's air filters. 

Combeferre gestures at a crate, taking up most of the rest of the shelf next to the empty space. It's long and rectangular, and Enjolras lifts the lid off and stares down at the contents, trying to make sense of it. 

Enjolras has seen pictures of ancient weaponry before. They had history lessons in the children's ward, learning of the Old World wars and conflicts that led up to the ship's exodus from Earth in search of a new home. He remembers catapults and trebuchets and siege-engines, atlatls and their darts, bows and their arrows. And he remembers crossbows, but the pictures in their lessons always made them seem like large, bulky things, as broad as a man's shoulders and as long as his back. These are small by comparison, scarcely the width of his forearm across the bow and light enough to be held in a hand or carried on a hip. 

Enjolras reaches out and picks one up, turns it over in his hands. He pulls on the bowstring and gives a low whistle at the surprising amount of force it takes to pull it back even a little. It's small, but he suspects it packs a punch. "For hunting, do you think?" he asks Combeferre. 

Combeferre inclines his head. "It would seem so. The other crates in this section have similar things -- spears, traps, the like." 

"Is there ammunition?" 

"In the bottom." Combeferre reaches in and pulls out a small box. 

Enjolras takes it and opens it. There are arrows packed tight inside, as long as his hand and honed to a wicked-sharp point. Enjolras tests one on the tip of his finger and hisses. It draws blood as easily as Joly's scalpel. "Okay," he says, letting out a careful breath. "Okay." 

Combeferre considers him for a moment. "What are you thinking?" 

"That this changes the rules of the game." He puts the box of arrows back inside and hefts the crate's lid back in place, then grabs onto the handle at the crate's end. "Help me carry this out?" 

Combeferre does so quietly, grabbing the handle at the other end. Together they carry it out into the main compartment and set it down on the floor. It's heavy, and makes a loud sound that attracts everyone's attention when it drops onto the compartment floor. Enjolras opens the crate again and gestures to those who haven't already gotten to their feet and started over to come see what it is he's got. 

Grantaire's the first at his side, and he stares down into the crate with a frown pinched between his brows and an expression Enjolras can't decipher. Éponine's next, and she sucks in a sharp breath when she sees the crossbows. 

"All this time," Enjolras says when they've all gathered around. "All this time, we've been going up against Security with nothing but our fists and a few knives to defend ourselves. We've been cautious because we had to be. We've stayed under the radar because we had no other choice. Because if they found us and we weren't very lucky, we were dead, or worse." He reaches in and takes one out, turns it around so they all can see. "This changes the equation, don't you think?" 

"Enjolras," Cosette says quietly, reaching in and taking one out, as well. She holds it in both hands and frowns like she's not sure what to make of it. "What are you planning on doing with these?" 

"I want to make a commotion," he says, and just like that, all eyes are fixed on him. "I want to let them know that we're not going to be kept cowering anymore. We're never going to find this ship -- or _our people_ \-- the home we've been searching for if we're too afraid to lift our voices." He looks at his friends, each of them in turn. "I want to _be heard_." 

"Okay," Courfeyrac says. His face is solemn, but his eyes are bright as he crosses his arms over his chest. "What are you thinking?" 

"We can't go up against Security with just the handful of us, even armed. We need the people at our backs. We have to tell them." He turns and looks at Grantaire for a long moment. "About you. About the planet we're leaving behind. About the records that show that Security hasn't been sending probes down to any of the planets we've passed, not in all the generations we've been flying." 

Grantaire nods once, slow and considered. 

"Could you send something to everyone on the ship? A letter, maybe, or a video. If we recorded one explaining you, explaining what's happened, you could make sure everyone sees it, right?" 

Another nod. "Tell me what you want to send, and I'll make sure it's on every datascreen on the ship." 

"A video, I think. Plain text is too easily overlooked, too easy to dismiss. I want them to listen to me." He smiles a little at Grantaire. "And I really think you need to be seen to be believed. They're likely to dismiss me as a crackpot if I try to tell them the ship is a man, and don't have you standing there at my side to prove it's true to them. Would you do that?" 

A shadow of uncertainty flickers across Grantaire's face. He turns, looking through the crowd until he finds Feuilly and catches his eye. "The projection will hold, won't it? The video will record how I'm meant to look, how the projection makes me look, not my true face, right?" 

Feuilly nods. "It should, yes." 

Grantaire does not look comforted by the room left for uncertainty in Feuilly's answer. He frowns, troubled, until Enjolras reaches out and puts a hand on his arm, and Grantaire's gaze swings back to him. 

"We'll test it first, okay?" Enjolras says quietly. "We'll record a trial run, and look at the video before we send anything to anyone." 

His expression clouds, growing more troubled rather than less. "If it didn't work, though," he says. "If you see me, _really_ me--" 

"That's what Floreal's antiviral was for, wasn't it? I'll be fine. Whether the video works or not." 

"But what if you aren't?" His voice drops to a hush, to words only the two of them can hear. Enjolras glances at the others still around them, mostly polite enough to avert their gazes and pretend they're not listening, and he guides Grantaire off a few paces with a hand on his arm, leaving the others behind them so they can have a truer sort of privacy. "What if the antiviral didn't work? What if it hurts you?" 

Enjolras stops him, sliding the hand on his arm up to curve against his cheek. Grantaire sucks back whatever other words he meant to say and just stares at him, stricken. "Security can see you without being harmed. The antiviral works, we know it does. What are you really worried about?" He brushes his thumb over the circuit tracks on Grantaire's cheek. "Why don't you want me to see you?" 

"It's not--" Grantaire's gaze slides sideways, turning guarded. He frowns and this is definitely his unhappy frown, with the corners of his mouth turned down and his brow creased into deep furrows. "You liked me looking like this. Not like..." He makes a helpless gesture. "I took liberties. You told me to make the image for the projection look different than I really do, and I took advantage of that. My nose is a little crooked, I think someone must've broken it before-- before. And my hair--" 

"Grantaire." Enjolras lets out a breath of air and leans his forehead against Grantaire's. "It doesn't matter. I liked you when all you were was a shadow against a bunch of ridiculously bright lights." He smiles a little and traces his thumbs over Grantaire's cheeks again. "The first sight I ever had of you was literally painful. It brought tears to my eyes." The muscles in Grantaire's face twitch a little beneath his touch. Enjolras can't be sure if it's a hint of a smile, or regret for the pain Grantaire caused him, or just a reaction to his touch that doesn't mean anything at all. But he doesn't pull away, and that does mean something. "Do you think a broken nose means anything to me?" He runs a finger down the bridge of Grantaire's nose and taps the tip of it, and it ferociously pleased when that, finally, makes Grantaire smile. It's a little weak and looks a little bit like it might be in spite of himself, but it still eases the frown lines that are making him look so relentlessly unhappy. "I don't care what you look like. I don't care." 

Grantaire sighs and doesn't look like he believes it, but he doesn't argue again, so Enjolras slips his arms around Grantaire's waist and hugs him close, hooking his chin over his shoulder. 

Grantaire clasps him, his breath shuddering and uneven, and Enjolras doesn't let go until Grantaire relaxes his hold and moves to release him. "Okay," he says, quiet and obviously still unhappy. "We'll do the video. But _I'm_ looking at it first to make sure the projection is in place. Not you. Not anyone else." 

Enjolras nods once, slowly. "That's fine. We'll do the test run first as a proof of concept, so we don't spend half the day making a video that we can't use." He takes Grantaire by the hand and walks with him back to rejoin the others. "All right," he says, brighter than he feels. "Who's going to record the video?" 

"Don't look at me," Éponine says with a crooked grin. "My 'screen doesn't have the free space to record a video. You know me, I've got it stuffed to the gills, and it's only worse now that we've got the drives." 

They settle on Feuilly, in the end, mostly because he volunteers once people start checking the free space left on their own 'screens and making unfortunate faces. They go off together, and Enjolras grabs two of the kinetic lights on the way so they can string them up overhead, and they settle into a corner of the main compartment, their backs against the plain, featureless wall so there's nothing to find its way into the shot and give away their location to Security. 

"We don't need very much for the trial," Feuilly says, tapping at the 'screen as Enjolras settles down cross-legged in the corner and pulls Grantaire down to sit beside him. "Just a few seconds will do it. So, you know, just smile and wave, or say something clever." 

"Don't look at it," Grantaire says, a new note of strain in his voice. "The screen, don't look at it. Let me, when you're done." 

Feuilly looks at him and quirks an eyebrow, but then nods. "All right, that'll do it." He snaps the datascreen shut without dropping his gaze from Grantaire's and holds it out silently. 

Grantaire takes it and turns around so that he's facing Enjolras. So that when he cracks the datascreen open, neither Enjolras nor Feuilly can see the screen. Even so, he holds it close and bends his head over it, and the distant, tinny sound of his voice plays from the 'screen: "Don't look at it. Let me, when you're done." 

Grantaire lets out an explosive breath and that's all Enjolras needs to know that the video recorded properly. He rolls up onto his knees so he can cross to Grantaire, drops down next to his side and presses in close, one arm draped across his shoulders because everything's as it ought to be but Grantaire still looks shaken. "There, you see." He catches Grantaire by the back of the neck and pulls him into the embrace, breathing his words close and quick against his ear. "Everything's fine. The video's fine, no one's going to be hurt, no one's going to see you except how you want to be seen. Everything's fine." 

Grantaire nods, his face pressed into Enjolras's shoulder, and holds onto him hard for a long moment. When he releases Enjolras, he turns to Feuilly and returns his datascreen. "It worked," he tells him. "The projection held. We can make the video." He twists to look at Enjolras again. "Do you know what you want to say?" 

"Yes. I've an idea." Enjolras reaches down to grip Grantaire's hand, out of sight of the camera, and squares his shoulders. "Let's get started." 

*

By the time they've finished the video, Enjolras is emotionally spent and physically exhausted. He slumps against Grantaire in the corner even after Feuilly's left to finish the video compiling with promises to send it to Enjolras's datascreen and to Grantaire's phantom account just as soon as it's done. Enjolras lets his head drop onto Grantaire's shoulder and takes quiet comfort in the arm that Grantaire slides around his waist. "You're worried," Grantaire says to him, low and quiet. 

Enjolras gives a broken laugh. "Of course I'm worried. Once we do this, we're-- what's the Old World expression? Kicking the hornet's nest?" He makes a face. "From everything I've read of them, I think I'd prefer the hornets. Their sting can't be worse than Security's." 

"And you can always swat them," Grantaire says, dry. 

Enjolras lifts his head to look at Grantaire and then laughs a little, the sound startled out of him. "If only." 

Grantaire pulls Enjolras's hand onto his lap and traces light patterns over the veins that run along the back of it. "There will be a little time," he says. "Between sending the video, and the hornets buzzing. It will take time for the people to receive the file, to see it, to open it and watch it. Some will be asleep. Some will be on shift. There will be some time before we have to act. You should rest." 

Enjolras curls his hand, making the tendons stand out beneath the veins. Grantaire traces those, too, and rubs with a little more pressure like he's trying to soothe the tension out. "It's not that easy." 

"I know. Do it anyway. Do it for me." 

Enjolras sighs and lets Grantaire take a little more of his weight. "I'll try." 

*

He dozes eventually, and wakes stiff enough that he knows he's been asleep for a while. He drifts to awareness at first, then jerks up all at once, his heart racing. "Grantaire." He's right there, still letting Enjolras lean in against him, though it can't have been comfortable. "Any news?" 

Grantaire shakes his head, looking at him like he's worried. He puts a hand on the middle of Enjolras's back and strokes him, soothing him. "Not a word yet." 

"How long's it been?" 

"A few hours. Give them time." 

Enjolras curls his hands around his knees. They don't _have_ time. And this video isn't the sort of thing that people are going to be able to watch and shrug off and move on with their lives. The information's a game-changer. For good or for ill, they should at least be _reacting_. 

"You don't think Security's keeping it quiet, do you?" Enjolras asks, more of himself than Grantaire. It's inconceivable, really. Security's forces are strong, but they don't outnumber the rest of the ship's population. They can't keep _everyone_ under their thumb, not with dangerous information being disseminated and the whispers of revolt brewing. 

But there aren't any whispers, and Enjolras isn't sure what that means. What it could mean. They're isolated down here, with half a dozen levels and a sturdy compartment door between them and the rest of the ship. It could all be going wrong in the rest of the ship and they might never know. 

Enjolras shakes that thought off. Grantaire would know. He'd have to. He makes himself focus on Grantaire again and leans forward as he catches his hand. "Can you send a message to Floreal? Just to check in and see what's going on with Security. We need to know if they're suppressing the information, or the reaction." 

Grantaire nods. His gaze goes distant for a moment, and then he squeezes Enjolras's shoulder. "I'll tell you the instant I hear anything. From her, or anyone." 

"Good. Thank you." 

Enjolras is going to go quietly mad if he sits there, helpless, for a moment longer, so he gets to his feet and goes over to see what the others are doing. In moments, he's pressed into service helping Courfeyrac and Jehan separate out and classify the fruits and vegetables they gathered based on how long they have to eat them before they'll go bad. It's slow going, and at least half the time ends with one of them shouting over to Grantaire to check his databases and tell them what it says about the shelf life of the various kinds of produce, but eventually they make it to the last of the vegetables and have a dozen smaller piles arrayed against one wall of the compartment, ranging from the least stable to the most. 

When they've finished, Grantaire catches Enjolras by the arm and pulls him a step aside, frowning. Enjolras's heart clenches tight in his chest. "Did Floreal send bad news?" 

"No." He lets out a sharp breath of air. "She hasn't said anything yet. No one has, still." He's frowning again. He's been doing entirely too much of that, lately. Enjolras's fingers itch to reach out and smooth across the lines in his brow that make him look so serous, so unhappy. "Do you think you could check your 'screen and make sure the video plays the way it's supposed to, and didn't get corrupted when it sent?" 

Enjolras blinks at him. "I don't have the file on my 'screen. I could ask Feuilly to check it on his--" 

"No, not the original. In the message. If the message system compressed it before delivering it, it might have compromised file data that--" 

"Grantaire," Enjolras says carefully. "You didn't send it to me. I figured you didn't include any of us as recipients when you sent it, since there's not much point in trying to convince _us_ what's going on." 

Grantaire gives him a long, long look. "I sent it," he says. "I sent it to everybody." 

"Okay," Enjolras says slowly. "If the video file caused some sort of error--" 

"It wouldn't have--" 

" _Could you just_ —" He stops, takes a careful breath, and lets it out just as carefully. He doesn't speak until he's able to do so calmly. "Please. Try again? Send just me something. A trial run, like we did with the video. It's standard debugging procedure. Go back to basics, and complicate things one step at a time until you figure out which piece is the one that's screwing things up." 

Grantaire is still a moment -- not lost in thought, Enjolras thinks, not going wherever it is he goes when he's being the ship and working the systems. Just unhappy and struggling with it. After a moment, though, he gives a stiff nod. "All right." 

It takes Enjolras a moment longer than it should to realize that Grantaire didn't mean that as agreement, but as confirmation. He frowns as he pulls his datascreen out and flips it open. 

There's nothing there. No message, no alert, just the 'screen's default display, waiting for a command. Enjolras chews on the inside of his cheek. He knows the answer, but he has to ask anyway, he has to be sure. "Did you--" 

"I sent it." Grantaire takes the 'screen from him and scowls at it, stabbing at its buttons. "The wireless signal is fine, there's no reason for this. _I sent it._ " 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and covers his face with his hands. He groans. He can hear Grantaire breathing, faster than usual because he's upset, and small wonder. But he just breathes, waiting, and so Enjolras drops his hands and meets his gaze to tell him. "Security. I said I wanted to be heard, didn't I? But they anticipated us. They silenced you before we ever had a chance to make a sound." 

"They didn't," Grantaire says, a sudden burst of sound. "How could they? I'm still connected to the wireless, all my systems are functioning normally." 

"They couldn't disconnect the wireless, not if they want the ship to keep functioning. They couldn't even block your outgoing signals, we all saw how well that goes when you were in sickbay. But they could mute you. It's simple enough code to block a single ID's outgoing messages." 

"I don't have an ID," Grantaire says quietly. His face is going ashen, his face shocked with it. "That's the point." 

Enjolras's mouth twists with a bitter smile. "That's slightly more difficult code, then. But only slightly. They could do it." All the evidence says that they _did_ do it. "Any decent programmer could do it." 

"Can you _fix_ it?" 

Enjolras shakes his head. "They'd repair the code just as quickly as I could dismantle it. They'll have it on a local drive, an auxiliary drive that they have full control of. It's not like hacking into the normal systems." 

Grantaire is very, very quiet. When he speaks, his voice sounds small and uncertain. "What do we do?" 

Enjolras isn't uncertain at all. He is burning bright, with anger and with conviction. He grabs onto Grantaire's hand and squeezes it tight, until Grantaire looks startled and squeezes back. "We find another way to make our voices heard."


	17. Chapter 17

Grantaire follows at Enjolras's heels as he storms across the compartment, looking anxious. "What are you thinking?" His voice goes sharp and concerned. " _Enjolras._ " 

Enjolras stops in front of the crate where it's been pushed back against the far wall. He crouches and hefts the lid off, pulls out one of the crossbows inside and a box of arrows. He shoulders the crate's lid back in place and sits on top of it as he breaks the box of arrows open and starts loading the crossbow's built-in quiver. It'll hold half a dozen right there against the weapon's body for easy access and he hopes he won't need to use any of them at all, but for safe measure he puts another handful into his pocket. "They can silence you," he says to Grantaire as he checks the security of the arrows in the quiver and pulls the bowstring back to the catch so that it's ready should he need it. "But they can't silence _us_. The people of this ship need to know what's been happening, what Security's been doing and what they've been keeping from them, and I intend to tell them." 

Grantaire watches his face closely for a long moment before he lets out a slow, measured breath of air. "You're going to tell them in person. You're going to go back up to delta level--" 

"Yes." 

He expects Grantaire to protest, to argue. He expects him to talk about how dangerous it is, about the risk, maybe to insist that they can find a way around Security's code if they just have enough time to work on it. But Grantaire just squares his shoulders and says, his voice harder than Enjolras is used to hearing it, "Get off." 

Enjolras straightens and blinks at him. "What?" 

"Get off the crate, Enjolras." When Enjolras doesn't move fast enough for his liking, Grantaire grabs at his shoulder and pushes, until Enjolras slides off to stand beside him. 

Grantaire pushes the lid open and takes a crossbow from inside, then reaches his hand out for the box of arrows. 

Enjolras loses his breath all at once. "No. Grantaire, _no._ " 

The look Grantaire gives him is flat and holds no room for negotiation. "I'm coming with you." 

" _No._ It's too dangerous. You have to stay here, you're _safe_ here." 

"Too dangerous for me, but not for you?" 

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at the middle of his forehead. "I'm not the ship." 

"That doesn't mean you aren't essential. Not to some of us," Grantaire says, very quietly. Enjolras opens his eyes again, but there's no more yielding in Grantaire's expression now than there had been a moment before. 

"If they take you," Enjolras says, "we have nothing. They'll have won." 

"And if I don't go with you, you'll have risked your life for nothing." He finishes loading the last of the bolts into his own quiver and drops the weapon down to his side. "You're the one who said no one would believe us without seeing me as proof." 

"You can't--" Enjolras chokes on nothing, on air, on the realization that Grantaire is right when Enjolras most needs him not to be. "You can't," he finishes on a breath, soft and pleading and horrified. 

Grantaire meets his gaze and holds it for a moment, and there's sadness there, too. "I don't want to be caught," he says quietly. "I don't want to go anywhere near Security. I don't want them to chain me up again, or put their wires and tubes back in me. I don't want--" He stops, his voice catching and going strangled, and drops his gaze down between them. "But I don't have a choice. Neither of us do. Like you said, right? The people need to know." 

"What if something happens to you?" Enjolras asks softly. 

Grantaire glances up at him again and gives him a small, sad smile. "Then something happens to me." 

Enjolras shakes his head, not refusal but simply _denial_. Because Grantaire's right, he knows he's right. No one will ever believe Enjolras if he shows up on his own and tries to tell them that the ship is a man, and he wouldn't even blame them for it. But Grantaire has to be safe. He _has_ to be, or everything they've done will have been meaningless. 

He swallows down the knot in his throat and reaches for the box, adds another handful of arrows to what he's already carrying, for good measure. "Okay," he says, and hates the way it makes relief wash across Grantaire's face. "Let's go, then. Before they have the chance to make another move against us." 

*

Word spreads quickly through the others. Enjolras isn't sure who it is who first pieces together what he's planning, but by the time he and Grantaire are both armed and have filled a pack with some of their food stores and a dose of Grantaire's medication just in case this takes longer than they're anticipating, everyone else has gathered into a tight knot full of anxious faces watching them like it's some sort of silent condemnation. 

Enjolras rubs a hand across his face and tries to figure out how to make them understand. That this is necessary, yes, but also that he'll die before he'll let anything happen to Grantaire. He isn't the only one who's sacrificed in order to keep him safe -- they all have, and it's not going to be for nothing. 

"We'll be careful," he says to them all instead, meeting everyone's eyes in turn and trying to tell them silently what he can't say out loud, because Grantaire would never hear of it. "We'll be quick." 

Éponine steps forward from the group, her arms wrapped tight around her ribs and her face grim. Enjolras chokes because he doesn't know what to say to her and he can't make the promise he knows she'll want. 

But when she speaks, it's not to voice any demands. She says, "Azelma," and Enjolras blinks at her, taken aback. "Remember? She's the one who told me about the rumors that we were leaving the planet behind. She already suspects something's going wrong, she'll be willing to listen. And she's my ward-sister. She knows me, she _trusts_ me. So she'll be willing to trust you, too. More than strangers would, anyway. You should start with Azelma's barracks." 

Enjolras nods slowly. It's a good idea, and he's grateful for it. "You can tell me how to find her?" 

"Of course." She holds her hand out to him, and he hands his 'screen over. She flips it open, types quickly, and hands it back after a moment with a screen full of instructions on it. "Tell her-- Tell her I said hi, won't you? Tell her I hope she's well." 

Enjolras nods. "I will." He skims the instructions, then closes the datascreen and slips it back into his pocket. He looks out at his friends, all of them looking very somber, all of them still clustered there before him, waiting, and he knows what they want. "Come on, then," he says quietly, smiling a little. 

They rush forward all together and Enjolras is enveloped, arms wrapping around him, squeezing until Enjolras is short of breath. He doesn't say a word to stop any of them. Courfeyrac has an arm around his waist, Combeferre a hand on his back, Cosette's hand grips his and Bossuet presses his face in against Enjolras's shoulder. 

"We won't be long," he promises them. "We'll be back before you know it. You won't even have time to miss me." 

"Hardly," Marius scoffs, frowning at him. 

He extricates himself reluctantly, because he has to, because if he doesn't do it now he might never manage it. "Don't you go getting in trouble without me," he says sternly. "I don't want to come back to hear about any excitement that I didn't get to share in." 

Éponine's smile is strained, but she gives him one all the same. "We'll be positively dull, I promise." 

"Good. I'll hold you to that." He checks his crossbow, though he's already done it a dozen times, giving the others room and opportunity to enfold Grantaire. They hug him just as tight as they did Enjolras, and speak to him in quiet voices that Enjolras makes an effort not to eavesdrop on. Whatever they're telling him, if they meant for Enjolras to hear it too, they'd have made sure he did. 

When everyone has had their hugs and their opportunity to admonish them both to be careful, Enjolras catches Grantaire's eye. He nods once and they move together to the compartment door. Grantaire presses his palm to the scanner and the doors hiss open, letting in the light from the hallway, painfully bright after days spent in the dimmer illumination of the kinetic lights. 

Grantaire seals the door shut behind them. Enjolras doesn't watch as it slides shut, cutting them off from the sight of their friends. He can't. He looks instead at the glowing imprint of Grantaire's palm on the scanner, lingering even after he drops his hand away, and then he looks at Grantaire. 

"Where to?" Grantaire asks quietly. 

"Up," he says. "Epsilon level." It's a long, long ways up, only one level below their own, and Enjolras's heart beats faster just at the thought of it. It's closer to Security than he cares to be, but they don't have any choice. It's worth the risk, it has to be. 

"Let's go," Enjolras says. Dragging their feet won't get them anything, and it certainly won't make this any safer. "The sooner we're go, the sooner we can be back." 

Grantaire nods and checks his crossbow, and they walk together down the long, empty corridor, leaving their friends behind them. 

*

Tension pulls Enjolras's shoulders tighter with every level they ascend. By the time they reach epsilon, pressed in close against the wall just beside the stairwell, he feels as though his shoulders have practically crawled up to his ears. Grantaire doesn't look any better, tense and a little wild-eyed, and he jumps at every sound of distant laughter or conversation. 

Enjolras pulls out his datascreen and rereads Éponine's directions, now that they've made it to epsilon level. He reads them twice, until he can remember them, then nods and catches Grantaire's hand. "Ready?" 

His smile is too bright, too forced. He was brave and stalwart back in their compartment, all iron and steel as he insisted on coming with Enjolras, but now, with the reality of where they are and what they're doing right before them, he looks like his nerves are faltering. "I have to be, don't I?" 

Enjolras can't blame him. His own nerves are doing the same. But Grantaire is right -- they have to be. Have to be strong, have to brave, have to be bold. Their friends are counting on them. The whole ship is counting on them, even if they don't know it yet. 

So where his instinct would be to stop and pull Grantaire aside, to speak calming, encouraging words until they'd bolstered his spirits or to remind him that his life is one that has choices now and he doesn't have to face this if he doesn't wish to, now he just nods and gives Grantaire's hand another squeeze and says, "Let's go, then." 

The urge to creep, to sneak, to walk on their tiptoes and in a crouch to keep quiet and small, is ridiculous but powerful. It takes every ounce of self-control Enjolras has to keep upright, striding tall and trying to look like he belongs there. They pass a few people in the halls, stragglers making their way too or from shift, or to or from the mess hall. They hold easy conversation with one another, and their gazes slide off of Enjolras and Grantaire, disinterested, when they realize they're not someone they know. 

He's just walking down a hall, something he's done a hundred thousand times before without a second thought, but his heart pounds a frantic beat and it feels like the most daring thing he's ever done. 

A quick glance at Grantaire shows him still wild-eyed, his gaze darting around. Enjolras squeezes his hand again, and when that gets him little more than a brief glance before Grantaire returns to scanning the hallway like he fears Security will rise up from the very floor to seize them, Enjolras tightens his grip and pulls him aside into a little alcove, where they're somewhat out of the way of anyone who'd pass by. 

"Hey." He comes in close, then leans in even closer, resting his forehead against Grantaire's. "Hey. I need you. You can't panic. Okay?" 

Grantaire gives a quick, jerky nod, but his breath still comes too quickly and a burst of conversation from somewhere down the hall still makes him jolt against Enjolras. 

Enjolras cups his face between his hands and tips his face up, tilting to a better angle so he can lean in and press his mouth to Grantaire's. He goes tense against Enjolras and breathes sharply through his nose, his breath warm against Enjolras's cheek. But Enjolras strokes his fingers over his cheeks and down his neck and kisses him gently, until he goes pliant and gives a long, shuddering sigh. His hand uncurls against Enjolras's shoulder. 

Enjolras draws back, then, but stays close, fingers still tracing patterns across his skin. "Better." 

Grantaire shuts his eyes and nods slowly. 

"Ready?" 

Grantaire shakes his head, but opens his eyes and says, "Yes. I'm sorry." 

"Don't be." When they resume walking this time, Enjolras keeps one arm wrapped around Grantaire's waist, keeping him close by his side. It's going to draw more attention to them than just walking through the hall side-by-side, could make them more memorable if Security comes by asking questions, but despite his protest Grantaire does look better, so it's worth it. 

They reach Azelma's barracks without incident, and Enjolras's heart feels as though it's going to beat out of his chest as he lifts a fist and raps at the barracks door. 

There's faint sounds from the other side, and then voices getting nearer. They cut off abruptly and the door slides open just a crack, enough for Enjolras to see one eye, narrowed in suspicion, squinting out at him. 

It rakes him up and down, and Grantaire too, and relaxes at the sight of them. Not a lot, just a little, but whatever they see is enough to get them to pull the door open a little more, wide enough to see a face instead of just an eye. 

"You're not Security." 

There's relief behind that observation, Enjolras can tell, but it's also an accusation, and he can't blame them. Why else would someone show up unannounced and unexpected at a stranger's barracks? It's not done. They mostly keep to their own barrack-mates and work-mates, and Enjolras has neither of those connections to claim. So he does what he can and says, "Is Azelma in? We're friends of her ward-sister, Éponine." 

There's a sharp cry from within the barracks, and the person still squinting at them suspiciously is shoved aside, his face replaced by that of a young woman, who pushes the door open wider and leans out toward them. Her hands grip the frame and the door's edge hard enough to turn her knuckles white, and Enjolras suspects it's the only thing keeping her from flying out at them. "Éponine? What's happened to her? She hasn't been to any of her shifts, people are saying. She's not in sickbay, or they won't tell me if she is. _Please_ , what's happened to her?" 

"She's well," Enjolras assures her quietly. "Please, will you let us in? We've a story to tell you." 

It doesn't make Azelma look the least bit relieved, and Enjolras supposes he can't blame her for that. A moment passes and then she nods, quick and jerky, and steps back out of the doorway. 

Enjolras steps across the threshold first, and moves out of the way so Grantaire can follow behind. Most of the barracks has gathered by the door by now, or at least turned to see who's caused the commotion and why. When Grantaire steps through after him, into view, it seems as though everyone in the room gasps as one. 

Azelma, the closest, steps toward them, her mouth fallen open and her eyes curious and wondering. She lifts a hand and reaches for him, her gaze tracing the lines of circuitry that are visible up his throat and crawling out from beneath the cuffs of his sleeves. "What _is_ that?" 

Grantaire shies away from her touch. Enjolras steadies him with a hand on his wrist, but shifts forward to put himself between the two of them, keeping her back. "Don't, please," he says quietly. "He doesn't like to be touched by strangers any more than anyone else does." 

Her gaze goes over Enjolras's shoulder, past him. "But what--" 

"That's part of the story we're here to tell," Grantaire says from behind him, quiet and even. Enjolras turns enough to look at him, to see him standing with his head high and his shoulders back. Enjolras smiles to see it, and slips his hand from Grantaire's wrist down to his hand. "But my name is Grantaire, and I'm the ship." 

There's a breath of silence and then a burst of noise, protests of, "You can't honestly expect us to believe something so ridiculous," and wondering, "But _how_ , how could you possibly be," and a dozen other voices all tangled up until their words are a knot pulled too tight to be unraveled. 

The floor beneath Enjolras's feet begins to hum. There are always vibrations, even up here, but after the stronger ones down on tau level the low-level buzz on epsilon, farther away from the engines, hadn't registered before. Now, the hum builds and grows, then falls, only to build again, until Grantaire has the attention of every single person in the barracks. It's a showy trick, and one that will catch Security's attention for sure, but Enjolras smiles at him for it all the same. 

"I _am_ the ship," Grantaire says when everybody's watching him. "But that's only part of the story, and it's not the important part. That's not what we're here about." 

It is, Enjolras thinks, but he's not at all surprised that Grantaire wouldn't think so. He threads his fingers through Grantaire's and lifts his voice enough to draw the attention from Grantaire and onto himself. "Is there somewhere we can sit? There's much to tell, and we've had a long walk." 

There's a sudden bustle, people rising and moving, making a space, until they're gestured forward to come sit on a pair of chairs, and everyone else gathers around them, sitting on beds or cross-legged on floors. Enjolras looks around and smiles past the sudden painful grip on his heart because it looks so much like his own barracks, and like his own group of friends. 

It's an effort to start speaking, to choose a place to begin when there's so much to say that it feels like the words will drown him. He starts with, "The planet -- you all know about the planet, I assume?" and watches the way one simple sentence transforms the faces around him. Some shine bright with excitement, others turn sharp and bitter, or burn with anger. Azelma's face goes pale and she shrinks back, leaning her weight onto her hands behind her and putting distance between them. 

"It's true, isn't it," she breathes. "We're leaving it behind." 

"It's true," Enjolras tells her, and steels himself for the way it makes any happiness in the expressions around him disappear. "But it's worse than that, actually." 

He starts there, and he tells them everything. He tells them about the planet, about the mounting evidence that Security hasn't been sending probes down, and doesn't intend to. He tells them about Grantaire, when he gets to that, about how he was being kept. Grantaire interjected while he was explaining about the planets and the probes, but he falls silent for his own story, looking grim and a little haunted. With a questioning glance and a nod from Grantaire, Enjolras shows them the wires twisted through his curls, and how they bury into his scalp, and tells them about how they had to free him. He shows them the relay that gives Grantaire access to the wireless and keeps the ship's systems functioning, and he shows them the pendant around Grantaire's neck. 

He explains Feuilly's projection, and as the faces around him go blank or bewildered with incomprehension, Enjolras explains why it's necessary. He tells them about the virus, and about how even a glimpse of his true appearance would kill every one of them. 

"Why?" Azelma asks, and Enjolras doesn't think she's asking why Security would go to such things. Her brows are furrowed and she has her mouth set in a hard line that reminds him so much of Éponine. "Why are you here telling us about this? What's the point?" 

"The point." Enjolras takes a deep breath and lets it out carefully. "The point is, if something doesn't change we're never going to find a new home. Not us, not our great-grandchildren, not _their_ great-grandchildren. The point is, I don't want to live the rest of my life in a metal box surrounded by the emptiness of space. I want to know what it's like to stand on solid ground with land stretching out all around you. I want to know what an ocean sounds like, and what it's like to stand underneath an open sky. We've all waited long enough, and I don't want to do it any longer. I want to find a place we can all call _home_ , now, for _us_ , not for our children's children's children." 

"You want to take on Security," someone says, and he sounds like he thinks the very notion is insane. 

Azelma leans forward, claiming the space she put between them, and grabs on to Enjolras's arm. "It's Éponine, too," she says, searching Enjolras's gaze. "She's helping you. Isn't she?" 

"Of course she is," Enjolras says with a soft smile. "It's _Éponine_ , after all." 

Azelma holds his gaze and the moment stretches. Finally, she gives a single nod and she straightens. "Then I'm in." 

Enjolras hesitates. Éponine, he thinks, would not be pleased to have her ward-sister imperiled. Éponine would want to protect her, and he suspects she'd have his head if he found out he let her involve herself in something like this, that could get her detained or worse. 

But Azelma is Éponine's sister, and they're alike in more ways than Éponine often acknowledges. She's not quite so brazen as Éponine, from what Enjolras knows of her -- even now as she sits before him insisting on helping, there's a wariness and a worry in her eyes. But Enjolras knows better than to assume it's a sign of weakness. 

"It won't be without risk," he says, to give her a chance to be certain she's sure. 

Azelma just frowns at him. "What is?" 

Enjolras inclines his head, acknowledging the point. "What we need," he says, "what we really need, is to spread the word, and fast. We have to have the people of the ship behind us, if we're going to stand against Security. If it's just our one barracks, we don't have a chance." 

"It's not just yours," Azelma says firmly. "You have me." 

A chorus of other voices rise up to join her, to pledge their support. Not everyone in the barracks, but Enjolras didn't expect that -- it's dangerous, what he's asking them to do. It's hard. But there are enough that he's satisfied, and so he thanks each person who voiced their support in turn, and then he looks back at Azelma. "You only let us in here because of our connection to Éponine. I don't blame you for that," he says quickly, when she looks like she's about to speak. "Caution is important, especially now. But I don't expect many other barracks to give us the chance to speak, without the family connection to ease the way." 

"What do you want me to do?" 

"Do you have friends in other barracks, or shift-mates? People you trust, who you could message to let them know we're coming, and make it a little easier to get past the door?" 

She looks thoughtful a moment, then nods. "There are a few people I can think of. Not a lot." She says that apologetically, with a grimace. "Working together with people doesn't give much opportunity to build strong relationships, or to get a sense for how trustworthy people might be. I won't give you the name of anyone I'm not absolutely certain you can depend on, but that does rather limit the pool." 

"Thank you," he says fervently, and she gives him a brief smile and reaches a hand out for his datascreen. "I'll give you their names and locations, and I'll send them messages before you leave, so they'll know to expect you." 

"No details," Grantaire says quickly. "Make it sound like you're wanting to introduce one acquaintance to another, or like it's a friendly gathering. Security will be monitoring everything. Don't give them any reason to suspect you're involved with us. They'll detain you all, if they think so." 

Azelma nods. "Don't worry. They won't find anything out from us." She returns Enjolras's datascreen to him, and he glances at it and sees a short list of names and locations. There's one more here on epsilon level, and two up on delta. The idea of climbing up another level, of placing themselves even closer to Security, sits in Enjolras's stomach like a lump of steel. 

"Go to him first," Azelma says, reaching over to tap a finger against the screen, next to the name that's on epsilon level. "He's closer, there's no point in running up and down the stairs if you don't need to. And I know he's not on shift right now, so he'll be there. The others I'm less sure about." 

"Thank you," Enjolras tells her again, and clasps her hand before he rises. 

"Tell Éponine..." A wealth of emotions flicker across her face in an instant, leaving her looking young and vulnerable. "Tell her to be safe. Tell her I miss her." 

Enjolras gives her a brief smile. "I tell her that all the time, but she rarely listens to me. Still, I'll tell her the message came from you. Sometimes she'll be careful for others where she won't do it for herself." 

Azelma wraps her arms around her ribs and nods. "Go," she says. "And be safe." 

"We'll do our best," Enjolras tells her, and after that there's little left to do but to leave. 

Out in the corridor, Grantaire gives a breath of laughter as they walk side-by-side. Enjolras twists to look at him. "That's a sound I like hearing." He slips his hand into Grantaire's. "But why do I feel like you're laughing at _me?_ " 

Grantaire lifts his head and his eyes are bright with amusement, his lips twitching with it. "You'll do your best?" he echoes, and then shakes his head. "You're as bad as Éponine is about keeping yourself out of harm's way. Worse, I think." 

Enjolras frowns as they walk. "I take calculated risks," he says after a moment. "When the potential gain is great enough to be worth the cost." 

Grantaire's face is still warm with amusement, but it's a little gentler now. He sighs a little as he reaches up with the hand Enjolras isn't holding and brushes his fingers along Enjolras's cheek, where the gash he took from Security's beating is still finishing healing. "Calculated, is it?" he asks softly. "You could have fooled me." 

"We needed the drives. They were important." 

"And now, we need _you_." Grantaire squeezes his hand hard, tight enough to ache. "No more foolish risks." 

Enjolras nods, helpless to do much else in the face of Grantaire's resolve. "Only the really intelligent ones," he promises. 

Grantaire does not look terribly reassured, but resume their walk together in silence, their hands linked between them. 

*

They reach the first name on the list without incident, and when Enjolras knock quietly upon the door, it slides open almost immediately and a man inside sweeps them both with an assessing gaze. It falters just a bit on Grantaire's face, but then swings back to Enjolras. "You're Azelma's friend?" 

Enjolras isn't sure he can claim that title, but he nods all the same, and the man slides the door open wider to admit them. 

They tell the same story they told to Azelma's barracks. This time, they're greeted with somewhat more skepticism, even as Grantaire shows them his circuitry, his wires, the way he can control the engines and the lights with a thought. Enjolras speaks of the planet, of Security's negligence, of the chance to find a home and an end to their centuries-long journey. 

They receive no promises of friendship or assistance, this time. The residents of the barracks seem split equally between outright distrust and hesitant curiosity. Enjolras leaves his name and ident number, so they can exchange messages, with those who seem like they might want it, and then they move on. 

They haven't been gone long, but being back on delta level feels eerie and disquieting, a strange mix of the comfort of the familiar and the unease of danger. They walk through halls that Enjolras has known all his life, past people he's been passing in the hallways for years. Enjolras is only grateful that neither of the last two names Azelma gave them are located particularly close to their old barracks, or he doesn't know if he'd be able to stand the feeling of being close to home while knowing that that home is gone, and is now more of a danger to them than it is a shelter. 

The penultimate name on the list garners them nothing at all. She isn't in, and the gruff woman who answers the door and stands with her arms folded and her brows lowered refuses to tell him any more than that. Grantaire feels tense as a wire at his side, nearly vibrating with restrained energy, but Enjolras simply wishes her a good day, apologizes for taking up her time, and leads Grantaire away. 

"We can't force it," he says in an undertone as they make their way toward the last barracks. "We want their support and their aid, and we're not going to earn it by putting our foot down and being forceful." 

"We're not going to earn it by walking away and not even speaking to them, either," Grantaire says in a grumble that seems more like it's unhappy with the necessity than it is truly dissenting. 

"There's lots of people on this ship. We still have plenty of places left to find support." He rubs his thumb across the back of Grantaire's hand, over the texture of circuitry and across the hills of his knuckles. "These four are just a place to start, that's all." 

Grantaire nods and looks somewhat mollified, so Enjolras turns his attention back to where they're going. "Here," he says, and hands his datascreen over to Grantaire. "You're the one with the blueprints in your head, you tell me where we need to turn and I'll make sure we get there." 

Grantaire looks down at the 'screen and the information displayed across it while Enjolras keeps guiding him forward with his hand on his, looking along the corridor for the markers that will help him orient himself and figure out how much distance they managed to cover while they were talking and distracted. 

The crowd's a little thicker here, or maybe it's just that it's late enough for a shift change. Enjolras is scanning through them, trying to catch a glimpse of a marker through the press and the motion. It's the only reason he sees it, a flash of Security-blue that sends his heart rocketing up into his throat. 

He releases his hold on Grantaire's hand, grabs instead at the back of his neck and _pushes_. Grantaire cries out in alarm and no doubt surprise as the movement bends him over, hunched at the back so he's mostly hidden by everyone else around them, milling about and trying to get home or to their shift, because if this is a coincidence, if Security doesn't already know they're here, it would only take one glimpse of Grantaire's face and they'd have every officer in the department descending upon this corridor. 

"Quiet," Enjolras says, using the grip on his collar to pull him down the nearest intersecting corridor. "Stay low." 

"What--" 

"Security," he says, and that's all that's needed. Grantaire's protests fall to silence as he hunches over and hurries at Enjolras's side. 

"Why are they here?" he breathes at they press their backs against the corridor wall, staring frantically back the way they came for any hint that they're being pursued. 

"I don't know." Enjolras looks around, trying to take stock of where they are and who's around them and, most importantly, whether Security has them surrounded or not. 

"Do you think they know we--" 

"I don't know!" Enjolras swings the pack he's carrying over his shoulder and drags out the crossbow inside, as well as a handful of arrows. He presses all but one into Grantaire's hands, then loads the arrow and holds the crossbow down at his side, between them. If they haven't been noticed yet, they certainly will if he goes waving a weapon about in the halls, but the weight of it in his hands is a comfort. He needs to know they'll be able to defend themselves, if this all goes wrong. 

"Where are we?" he asks of Grantaire as he keeps his gaze moving, flicking from one end of the hallway to the other. "Can you figure out where we are?" 

Grantaire takes a careful breath. "Yes," he says, and he sounds sure again, now that he has a task before himself. He's quiet for a moment as he thinks, as he processes, and then he rattles off a set of coordinates, and Enjolras goes very still. Everything is suddenly very, very clear. 

They walked farther than he thought while they were talking, and they're nearer to home, to their barracks, than he ever intended to get. It's a danger, but now it's a boon. Grantaire may have the blueprints of the entire ship in his head, but Enjolras _knows_ these halls, knows them like he knows his own skin. 

He takes one more glance around to orient himself, grabs onto Grantaire's hand, and says, "We're going to run." 

They run. It's an effort to get through the crowds at first, but after three quick turns and one long hall the space thin out, then empty entirely, and they're running through the very edges of the void. 

Enjolras pulls them into adjoining rooms and through service corridors, moving too quick for thought, just running on instinct. He knows this area too, now, after so many trips to see Grantaire and all the times they ducked down these very same passageways. It's not a void any longer, not really. It's just another part of the ship, used infrequently enough that they have the space they need here to really run, and gain the speed they'll need to keep ahead of Security. 

They pass an intersecting hall and Enjolras doesn't dare waste the time to look, but he hears voices, too sharp and commanding to be anything but Security, and the crackle of radio static, and he knows it's bad. As bad as it can get. Security's here, and they're on their trail, and it's just the two of them. They're smart and they're quick, but if Security's already outflanked them-- 

"Trust me," Grantaire says, and it's not a question but Enjolras answers, "Always," all the same. Grantaire glances at him, gives a single nod, and the lights along the corridor explode all at once, a cascade of sparks raining down on them like a meteor shower and then blackness, the world reduced to the pounding of Enjolras's heart and the crunch of glass beneath his shoes and Grantaire's hand in his, gripping him tight. 

He only staggers once, and then he gets his feet back under himself and says, "You lead. I'll be right beside you." 

Grantaire only responds with a tighter grip around his hand. They run together, and Grantaire pulls him to one side or the other to lead him around corners and into turns. And there's no heavy slap of boots approaching behind them, no nearing shouts to stop and surrender, but that doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean they're free. It just means they're not caught yet. 

That thought makes Enjolras stagger to a stop. Grantaire's grip on his hand wrenches at his arm, then pulls him to a stop, too. He turns back to Enjolras, presses in close and herds him back against the wall like he's going to shield Enjolras from whatever comes, even though they're in perfect darkness. "What is it?" he asks, a hushed breath. "What's wrong?" 

Enjolras swallows down bile. He knows what has to be done, and he knows what Grantaire's going to think about it. "We can't keep this up. They can bring in reinforcements when they start to slow down. This is just delaying the inevitable. We can't outlast them." 

Grantaire lets out a sudden, sharp breath. It sounds as though he's been hit in the chest, all the air knocked out of him, and Enjolras knows it's his words that did that to him. He can't see anything, but he shuts his eyes anyway and tips his head forward until his forehead is pressed to Grantaire's. 

Grantaire releases his wrist, bringing both hands up to cup his jaw. "Don't," he gasps. "Don't say that. You can't give up." 

"I'm not giving up." Enjolras slips out from between Grantaire and the wall, reversing their positions. He locks his elbows, arms straight, holding Grantaire back when he tries to come closer. "I'm surrendering." 

Grantaire is quiet for a moment, taking that in. Enjolras knows when his meaning hits him, because this time when he loses his breath, it sounds like a sob. "No. _No._ " 

Enjolras is grateful for the darkness. He couldn't bear to look at him right now. "They'll take us both if we keep this up." 

"Then let them take us both!" 

"No," Enjolras says gently, and slips one of the hands braced against Grantaire's chest up to brush over his cheek. "You know that can't happen. If they take you, they'll lock you back up again. You heard what Floreal said. They were already talking about tranquilizing you to keep you complacent. What do you think they'll do _now_?" He shakes his head, then lets out a sharp sigh when he remembers Grantaire can't see it. "They'll sedate you until straight into a coma. They'll erase every part of you that's human until there's nothing left but machine. I can't let that happen. I _won't_. If they take you, they win, for good." 

"I won't let them have you!" 

He's being too loud, his voice will carry through the empty halls and lead Security right too them. And Enjolras half suspects that's what he wants. If Security arrives before Enjolras can convince him to let him do this, it won't matter anymore. So Enjolras slides his hand to the back of Grantaire's neck and presses in and kisses him. 

There's desperation in the kiss, but there's sorrow, too. Because Grantaire doesn't know it, but Enjolras has one last card left to play. Grantaire's going to hate it. 

He breaks away from the kiss to breathe eventually, and grabs onto Grantaire tight, and he says, "The access scanner on the compartment. Did you reprogram it to accept any palm scan, or just your own?" 

Grantaire goes perfectly still against him, and Enjolras knows the answer before he says a word. "Mine." There's sorrow in his voice, enough of it to drown in. He already knows what it means, and what he's going to have to do. "It was simpler, and less likely to attract Security's attention." 

Enjolras nods. He'd expected nothing less. "Then we have to do this. We _have_ to. The others... They can't get out without you." 

Grantaire shakes his head hard. "No." The word is choked, strangled in denial. 

"You have to," Enjolras says again, gentler. He kisses Grantaire again, light and lingering. "You'd trade your life for mine, I know. But you can't let them all starve for my sake." 

Grantaire shudders hard in his arms, violent, maybe even furious. 

"You're programmed to protect the people on this ship," Enjolras says, and deals the final blow. "You know how this math adds up. One life, in exchange for a dozen? You can't make that trade. You don't have it in you." 

Grantaire snarls, "I am more than my programming." 

Enjolras lets out a breath of laughter that holds no humor at all. "I don't mean what Security did to you." He skims his thumbs along Grantaire's cheekbones, across his eyelids, traces the circuitry patterns that crawl down his neck. "You're not going to let a dozen of your friends die just for me. I know you. You're not." 

"I hate you," Grantaire breathes and presses darting kisses to his mouth. "Don't do this. Don't make me do this." 

"I know. I'm sorry." He kisses Grantaire once more and then makes himself break away. "Give me my 'screen, Grantaire." 

Grantaire presses it into his hands and Enjolras flips it open. The light from the screen is meager, but after the darkness it seems bright as a beacon. It illuminates Grantaire's face and that makes it all harder. There's sorrow shining in Grantaire's eyes and tears dripping freely down his cheeks, and it takes everything Enjolras has in him to step back and let his hands fall away. 

"Stay in the dark until it's safe," Enjolras says. "Be careful. Be quiet. Then get back to the others." 

Grantaire slides down the wall until he's sitting with his back against it, curled into a ball with his face pressed to his knees. Enjolras makes himself turn, makes himself walk away, makes himself ignore the sound of Grantaire crying as it recedes away behind him. Eventually, Enjolras can't hear him at all over the sound of glass crunching beneath his steps, and that's worse. 

He uses the 'screen to illuminate his way, heading back in the direction they came. They took too many turns too quickly for him to have any hope of retracing their exact path, but he doesn't need to. He just needs to get away from Grantaire and find Security. It won't be difficult, they're surely crawling the halls by now. 

The glass gives way beneath his feet first, though the lights overhead remain dark. A few halls on from that, he turns a corner and sees light shining at the end of it, and he's weak with relief even as his heart squeezes with trepidation. 

He stops at the boundary between light and shadow and checks his crossbow, makes sure the bolt is still secure and the others are settled into the built-in quiver. That gives him seven shots, and he's going to have to make them count. 

Security will never buy it, if he just strolls on out and announces his surrender. They'll just keep combing the halls looking for Grantaire. He's going to have to make them work for it, and make sure that they don't have attention to spare for anyone but him. It's the only way Grantaire will have a chance of getting back down to tau safely. 

He moves forward more cautiously after that, keeps close to the walls and sneaks a glance around each corner before continuing, to be sure the way up ahead is clear. Until finally, he leans out just enough to peak down an intersecting hallway and hears a sudden shout behind him. 

He whips around, facing the group of Security officers at the other end of the corridor, every one of them focused on him and rushing forward. 

He lifts the crossbow, fires and reloads and gets off a second shot before they're on him, and then he just grabs the remaining arrows from the quiver and lashes out with them gripped in his fists, striking out with their razor-sharp heads at anyone who gets close enough to reach. 

Two officers grab at him and he sends them reeling back, gashes opened across their arms and dripping blood onto the floor. Someone else circles around just out of his reach and tries to come at him from behind. Enjolras spins, lashes out with the solid body of the crossbow and gets him across the face with it and almost certainly breaking his nose. 

He fights like a cornered animal, savage, vicious. He fights for Grantaire, left huddled and grief-stricken. He fights for his friends, for the home that they lost, for the dozens of possible new homes that Security's passed up without even a cursory investigation. He fights for everyone who set foot on this ship and consented to spend the rest of their lives floating through the emptiness of space in the hope that their future generations might be able to live as something other than nomads, for all the promises Security made and then broke. He fights for the people and the ship and he fights for himself, too, for all the rage that's burning up inside him. He fights until someone amongst the Security officers snarls, " _Do it_ ," and there's a sound like an explosion. His ears ring and his whole head throbs with it and something hits his shoulder like a fist, though there's no one close enough to touch him. 

His hand goes numb and the crossbow drops from useless fingers. Enjolras looks down and stares at the spreading red stain across his shirt, reaches up with his other hand and presses his fingers against the sticky fabric, and the pain hits him all at once. 

It takes him down to his knees, gasping, choking back screams because he won't give Security that satisfaction. They're all around him in an instant, looming over him. He's picked up enough from Joly in their years of friendship that he knows to press his palm over where it's bleeding, knows to do it despite the way the pain makes him cry out. He pushes as hard as he can but blood still spills out across his fingers. 

The Security officers grab him and haul him upright, then snarl and swear at him when he can't make his legs support his weight. Someone presses his hand over Enjolras's, over the wound, and says something that sounds like, "Nicked an artery," and Enjolras knows that's bad, knows that's very very bad. But everything is going soft and grey around the edges and he knows there's no point in worrying about himself any longer, so as he slips under he shuts his eyes and hopes as hard as he can that Grantaire made it to safety.


	18. Chapter 18

Enjolras wakes in agony, and profoundly grateful for it. He can't see anything, can't hear anything, but he _hurts_ , and it's all he needs to know that he's still alive. 

There were times he would have said that he'd rather die than be detained by Security, but not now. For now, he's glad, even as the pain turns abruptly excruciating. He can't talk yet, his tongue still feels thick and sluggish, but the pain is followed by a tortured groan that must have come from him, because as soon as he hears it the pain recedes and there's a crisp, authoritative voice somewhere overhead saying, "He's coming around. We're not finished with the procedure yet. Increase his dosage by point-five." 

Enjolras fights against the fog and the weight of exhaustion that still pulls at him like weights tied around his limbs, struggles his way up enough to force his mouth and lips and tongue to move. He forces air through his voice box even though it feels like shards of glass and summons all the strength he has within him to rasp out a single, broken syllable: "No." 

For a moment, there's nothing. No pain, no speech, just Enjolras's pulse beating too rapidly against his eardrums. Then: "You're in surgery," in that same, sharp voice. "We're nearly done, but not yet. We need to give you more anesthesia before you go into shock. In the state you're in, the pain alone could kill you." 

"No," Enjolras says again, louder, though still rough and raw. And then, with another massive effort, he growls, " _Do it._ " 

Better to die a slow, torturous death at Security's hands than to let them drug him into oblivion again. As long as he's awake, he's alive. He'll suffer through whatever surgeries they care to put him through, but he won't be drugged. Not as long as he can't trust that if he sleeps, he'll wake up again. 

"Leave him be," someone snarls, gruff and a little farther away. Enjolras forces his eyes open, though the amount of effort it takes makes him long for a nap just as soon as they're open. 

He's in sickbay, and the face leaning over him is a physician, if the mask and gown are anything to judge by. He looks down on Enjolras in stern disapproval, and beyond him there are several men in Security-blue, their uniforms ruined or in shreds, bandages taped across arms and thighs and chests. Enjolras knows with a sudden clarity that they're the officers he injured in the fight, and his chest burns with a fierce, sudden satisfaction, even as one of them curls his lip into a sneer aimed at Enjolras and snaps, "If he wants to suffer, then _let_ him. We don't need to go spending our stores of medicines on some treasonous bastard who doesn't even want it." 

The physician looks down at Enjolras with a pinched expression. "This is delicate work," he says. "I barely managed to repair your subclavian artery and keep you from bleeding out. But I need to get the bullet out now and it's going to hurt. If you move, you'll tear the artery open again and I don't know that I'll be able to repair it this time." 

It takes Enjolras a full minute to be able to force the words, "I won't move," out. The anesthesia is receding, returning control of his muscles to him, but it's doing so slowly and every movement is still an effort. 

The physician stares at Enjolras for a moment longer. "If your vitals destabilize I'm increasing your dosage whether you like it or not," he says at last, and then bends his head and returns to work, and the agony explodes through Enjolras's shoulder again. 

He doesn't move, though every muscle in his body spasms tight at the pain. He can feel his heart racing, pounding so hard it feels like it's going to burst right out of his ribcage, and he can't fight against the pain so he fights against that instead, struggles to push his pulse down and ease his heart rate, because he knows every beat will be reflected on the physician's monitors, and if he doesn't like the way Enjolras's pulse is skyrocketing he'll put Enjolras under again and _that can't happen._

The anesthetic continues to fade as the minutes drag by, until every nerve he has hums and burns, singing out at the torture being inflicted upon them. Sweat drips down his brow and stings his eyes. His strength gives out, exhaustion too much for even the excruciating pain, and he slumps back upon the surface they've laid him on. 

He has scarcely a moment to wonder if he's come through the worst of it, and then he starts shaking violently, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. He tries to tighten them up, to force himself still for the physician, but it only makes the shaking worse. "Sorry," he gasps through chattering teeth. "I'm sorry. I'm trying. Don't, please don't." 

"You're lucky we're nearly done," the physician says, and his brows crease. "Though I don't know that _I_ would call it luck." He braces a hand on Enjolras's chest, pushing him down flat and holding him there despite the trembling that runs through the rest of him. "The bullet's out, and bleeding is minimal. I just need to stitch your wound closed." 

Enjolras nods, jerky and uncoordinated, but it must get the message across because the physician presses down harder and the pain changes. It's sharper now, but more localized, and Enjolras is familiar with this pain. Joly's stitched him without anesthetic before, when getting to sickbay was either impractical or unwise. He breathes through it as carefully as he can, though his lungs shudder on every exhale and turn each breath ragged. 

Finally, after an eternity, the physician smears something across the stitches that makes the whole area tingle and the pain fade away just a fraction. He plasters a bandage across Enjolras's shoulder and steps back out of his field of view, speaks low and quickly to someone else: "He needs to rest if he's to heal." 

The physician is answered by a gruff voice. It's not the one who urged him to let Enjolras suffer earlier, but it has a similar note of authority and anger about it. "He's a traitor. He belongs in a detainment cell, not a cushy sickbay bed." 

There's a brief, furious silence. "If you wish to execute this man, then execute him and be done with it. But if you want him to live, then you'll see to it that he rests, and that he takes his medication as scheduled, do you understand me? Did you not hear a word I said about the likelihood that movement could tear his subclavian artery right back open again?" 

The physician is answered by a grunt. "He won't be the first detainee we've had to administer medications to. Is he able to be transported?" 

Another silence, less furious but no less tense. "Very carefully. If those stitches re-open and he's not right here on my table--" 

"Don't worry. We've a vested interest in making sure this one stays alive. Tranq him, then, and we'll see to it he's kept nice and quiet in his cell." 

Enjolras struggles, then, thrashing and fighting to get all his limbs working well enough to sit up. "No. _No._ " 

The physician appears in his field of view again, pushing him back down onto his back with one hand spread wide across his good shoulder. "You can't stay on my operating table forever," he says, admonishing. "You had to know this wasn't leading anywhere but a detainment cell." 

Enjolras keeps struggling, swatting at the physician's hand, though it's as useful as railing against gravity. " _No tranqs._ " 

The physician's still wearing his face mask so it's hard to read his expression, but Enjolras thinks he smiles, and he thinks it's sad. "That's not really up to me, I'm afraid," he says, and then there's a hand gripping his, and a sharp, burning sensation in his wrist followed by coolness washing through him, turning everything black again. 

*

When he wakes next, it's to the dull ache of his shoulder pressed to something hard and unyielding, and a throbbing in his injured shoulder that's matched by the headache beating against the inside of his skull. 

It takes both arms to push himself upright and off his back, and that makes the pain in his shoulder turn abruptly sharp and intense, and once he's sitting it leaves him bent over and gasping as his head reels and nausea churns through his stomach. He waits and breathes through it, cradling his arm against his chest, until at last the pain fades back to a tolerable ache, and the nausea recedes with it. And at last he can blink back the fog from the tranquilizer and look around himself, and take stock of his situation. 

His cell is little better than a closet. If he were capable of standing in the middle and stretching both arms out, he'd almost be able to brush both walls with his fingertips, and only a little longer than it is wide, long enough for a cot pushed against one wall and a sink and a toilet in the corner. 

The door is solid, with a narrow viewing window and an even narrower pass-through that Enjolras assumes is for meals, and perhaps the medications that the officer promised to make sure he took. There's a tray of food on the floor, just inside the door, and the thought of eating makes his nausea stir in warning, but he gets to his feet carefully and goes over to the tray anyway, picks it up and carries it over to sit at the end of the cot. There's a shallow bowl of soup -- mostly broth -- and a slice of bread, and a lump of something green that Enjolras supposes are meant to be vegetables, but they're soft and overcooked and nothing at all like the bright, vibrant plants they found growing in the gardens. 

Enjolras eats, pushing through the nausea through sheer stubbornness, because he doesn't suppose he's likely to be given anything better if he holds out, and because whatever Security may have in store for him, he's certain he's going to need his strength. He forces each bite down until the tray is empty, then leaves it in the corner and turns his attention to inspecting the rest of his cell. 

High up and tucked into one corner, the smooth, featureless panel of the wall is interrupted by a square of dark glass. Enjolras considers it for a moment, and considers the bed and the toilet beneath it and the likelihood that, if he stood on the commode, and maybe if he propped the bed's frame against it to give him a little extra height, if maybe he'd be tall enough to reach that glass tile and get a better look at it. 

Before he's able to test his theory, he's interrupted by the sudden, deafening sound of machinery, of metal ringing against metal. He spins, searching for the source, and finds nothing. He crosses the cell and tries the door, but it holds fast. 

A flash of movement just beyond the door's viewing window catches his attention. He lets go of the door and moves in closer instead, presses his face to the glass as he strains to see more of what lies beyond than just the narrow sliver directly opposite his door. 

A shape passes by outside, sudden and near enough that Enjolras recoils, staggering back. And as he stares, he finds a face on the other side staring back at him, more shocked than startled. 

Enjolras surges forward as quickly as he retreated, palm pressed flat to the window in entreaty. "Who are you?" he pleads through the door. "What's your name?" 

The man jolts back as though afraid Enjolras might strike him, as though there isn't a sealed, impenetrable door between them. He hurries on out of the narrow strip of hallway that Enjolras can see, and Enjolras stays where he is, straining to look out for a few moments longer, but no one else passes by. 

He gives in eventually, and sits cross-legged on his cot, thinking very hard. 

*

Time holds little meaning, all alone in his tiny cell with nothing at hand to indicate its passage. At some point, there's a noise outside the door and the flap shielding the pass-through rattles. A gruff voice barks, "Tray," at him through it. 

Enjolras stares dumbly, taken aback by the sudden presence of another person, but the unexpected sound of another voice. 

The flap rattles again, more insistently. "Tray, or you can just go hungry," the voice snarls, and galvanizes Enjolras into action. 

He scrambles across the cell, grabbing up the old tray and pushes it through the opening. It's taken, and a moment later its replacement is returned to him, bearing the same broth and bread and unidentifiable vegetables from before. 

He eats, though it's no more appetizing than it was the first time around. And he's nearly finished, just a few pieces of crust left from the slice of bread, when there's movement and noise outside his door again. Isolated the way he is, with only the hum of the engines and the sound of his breath through his lungs for company, even the smallest of noises sound deafening. 

He slides the tray off his lap and scrambles to the door. This time, when someone passes by outside, he's not startled. He's ready, and he beats his hand against the door and calls out, "Wait! Talk to me, please. _Please._ " 

It's the same man who he saw before. He startles again and stares at Enjolras. He looks bedraggled and worn, unshaven and unkempt. His gaze flicks sideways like he's nervous, then moves a step closer to Enjolras's door. 

Enjolras presses his forehead against the glass, dizzy with relief. "What's your name? Mine's Enjolras." 

The man's gaze flits around again, darting, wary. He looks at Enjolras again and frowns. "The window," he says, and lifts a hand to press his fingers to the glass. 

Enjolras blinks at him, taken aback. He moves his hand and mirror's the other man's touch, fingers pressed to the other side of the glass. "What about it?" 

"It's not--" He hesitates, glances over his shoulder again, like he fears something. Someone. Security, no doubt. 

"No, _please._ Tell me. Please tell me." 

"They're all opaque, down here." He raps his knuckles against the glass. "They don't want anyone to be able to see out. Or in. You shouldn't be able to." His brow furrows. "I don't know why they'd let you. I don't know what it means. It can't be anything good." 

There are a hundred questions Enjolras wants to ask, a thousand, but before he can the man gets nervous again, shrinking back and looking like a child fearing a reprimand. "We can't talk. We're not supposed to," he hisses, and darts out of Enjolras's view. 

"Wait. Wait!" Enjolras beats his fist against the door once in frustration, but the man is gone, and he doesn't come back. 

*

He sleeps eventually, though the lights stay on, and he can't tell if his exhaustion is due to the hour growing late or the fact that his body's been through a lot in a very short amount of time and it's finally demanding the rest and recuperation it needs. But he sleeps, curled on his side on his cot with the thin blanket they've provided pulled up over his head to block out at least a little bit of the light. 

When he wakes his empty tray is gone, though he didn't think to leave it in the pass-through, and there's a new one in its place. This one has a glass of water and a little cup with pills in it, in addition to the meager rations. 

He sits with the glass in one hand and the pills in the palm of the other for a long time, torn. He doesn't trust Security not to drug him for their own purposes, but he knows the risks a wound such as his pose, and he knows Joly would never let him hear the end of it if he knew Enjolras had refused antibiotics. 

Drugs wear off, he thinks. But his shoulder is already bad enough, and he's going to be no use to anyone if he lets it get infected. So he downs the pills and finishes the glass of water, eats the food while it's still something like warm, and then lies back on his cot and stares at the ceiling, waiting to see if the pills have any adverse effects. 

Activity and the weight of his arm pulling at his shoulder has turned the dull ache to a throb that pulses in time with the beat of his heart in his ears. Enjolras counts the beats and wonders if one of those pills was a pain-killer. He thinks about how excruciating it was only a few hours earlier and reminds himself that this is still an improvement. 

He thinks about the hallway, the fight. The roar of thunder and the impact and what the physician said. _I need to get the bullet out._

Firearms. Security has _firearms_ , has them and is willing to use them, and to hell with the risk it poses to everyone on the ship. One stray bullet could puncture the outer shell and send all their precious oxygen out into the void of space. It could punch through an interior wall and sever vital infrastructure, could disable their grav generators or climate controls or the engines themselves. 

They learned about firearms in their lessons as children. It would have been near-impossible to learn about Old World history otherwise, but they were taught the dangers firearms posed in space, too, and they were told that because of that danger, no guns had been permitted aboard the ship. 

When they were children, they were taught these things as though it made for a peaceful, utopian society. Now they're older and they know better to believe such tales, but Enjolras had never considered that the prohibition on guns might have been a lie, too. He hadn't thought that Security might risk their own lives to keep everyone else under their thumb. 

He has little to do now but think, and so he does. He remembers the storage compartment, and when they'd discovered the crossbows. He remembers how there'd been room on the shelf, though everywhere else things had been packed tight to utilize every centimeter of space. It had been the same shelf the crossbow and bolts had been stored, and it only made sense for like to be stored with like. When they landed, while they established themselves in their new home, they'd have to hunt for their food. Crossbows would be important for that, and firearms would be even better. 

Perhaps the lies they'd been told as children had been well-intentioned. Perhaps the ship's first generation had stowed them on the ship in secret, and then lied so those inclined to violence would have no cause to seek them out. 

But those inclined to violence had found them all the same. And the crossbows that they'd all thought would give them an edge and provide a defense were going to be less than useless if they were outnumbered and out-armed. 

He was lucky he'd only been shot in the shoulder. He was lucky he was alive, even if it didn't exactly feel like it, with the cell's four small walls closing in on him from all sides. 

His thoughts drift, but he thinks it's more from idleness than anything that may have been in the pills he took, and that's a relief, even if they don't seem to have bothered to include a pain-killer. He rises and stretches, easing out muscles that are unused to being so still. He presses his face to the window, but there's nothing but silence and stillness outside. He puts the food tray back in the pass-through, ready for the next meal, and then he paces, long strides up and down the length of his cell. 

When he's paced long enough that he at least feels like he's had a chance to use his body, instead of letting it stagnate and rot in this cell, there's a sound outside the door. He rushes back to it, pressing his face to the window and straining for a glimpse of the stranger who keeps passing by his cell. 

The stranger isn't anywhere to be seen, and when a loud, clanging sound comes from the inner machinery of the door, Enjolras scrambles back. He stands in the middle of the cell, braced. 

He is unprepared. The door's thrown open and what seems like a hundred Security officers pour inside, all of them shouting commands like, "Get away from the door," even though Enjolras hasn't moved except to stagger back in surprise. 

Someone grabs him and drags him back while others flip over his cot and tear his blanket off the bed. He can't imagine what they might be looking for, what they might think he could possibly have, when he's been here only a few days and had all of his possessions stripped from him before they put him in here. He hasn't had time or opportunity to acquire contraband, but when he tries to ask, he finds himself shoved back against the cell wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs, a hand around his throat and an officer snarling in his face, " _Do you have something to say, prisoner?_ " 

Enjolras can't answer. He can't breathe. He scrabbles at the officer's hand, at his arm, but he might as well try to shift the stars in the sky. When spots start speckling his vision, darkness clawing in from the edges, he swings and lands a lucky blow across the officer's cheek and nose. 

It gains him a moment's ease of the tightness around his throat, just enough to gulp air into his burning lungs before he's thrown to the floor, sprawled on his stomach as the officers pin him in place, hands on his shoulders and hips and someone's knee digging into his back. He gasps for air as they scream at him, one voice spilling over the next until it's just a cacophonous din, too much for Enjolras to make any sense of. 

He pushes against the weight pressing into his back, because it's squeezing his chest down against the floor and suffocating him just as surely as the hand around his throat was. But it's the wrong thing to do, because the furious shouting takes on a new intensity and someone grabs his arm, his bad arm, and wrenches it up behind his back. 

Enjolras screams, fire burning through his whole arm. He thrashes mindlessly and it gets him nothing but more pressure on his arm, more pain, until finally someone's voice cuts above all the rest, a gruff, "Enough. We're done here," and just like that all the hands on him are gone, and the weight on his back disappears, and by the time he's caught his breath and is able to look around, his cell is empty again, left ashambles but empty and quiet and still. 

He picks himself up carefully, moves gingerly as he sets things to rights. It doesn't take long, when there were so few possessions inside the cell to start with, but it makes a grim sort of satisfaction spread through him all the same, to have the chaos and confusion of Security's visit returned to quiet and orderliness, as though they'd never come at all. The only remnant that remains is the pain in his shoulder, and so when he has the cot is back in place, he sits on its edge and rips a strip from the end of the blanket and ties it into a sling for his arm, to help support its weight and keep it mostly immobile. 

When everything's back where it belongs and the sling's settled into place and the weight taken off his shoulder, he feels like he can breathe again. He picks up the tray and bowl and utensils that got flung across the room by Security, returns them to the pass-through and then sits again, winded and a little nauseous just from those few minutes of exhaustion. But it's worth it the effort, and the cost. 

Joly would never let him hear the end of it if he knew Enjolras was neglecting his wound care, so he pushes the collar of his shirt aside and hisses at the sight of the stitches underneath, at least half of them torn out or oozing blood. Joly would disapprove intensely, but he has no needle here, no sutures, and no skill with either besides. He'll just have to do his best to keep his arm still, and hope it starts to heal before Security can shove him around again and tear the rest of them out. 

"You shouldn't fight them." 

Enjolras jerks his head up. The words are distant, muffled, almost faint enough to miss beneath the sound of his own thoughts. He scrambles up and across the cell, presses in close against the wall where the voice seemed to come from. "What?" he gasps. "What did you say?" 

"You shouldn't fight them. It'll only make it worse for you." 

Enjolras leans his forehead against the wall, giddy at the sound of another person's voice, someone who isn't screaming at him or snarling in his face. "I couldn't breathe," he says. 

"They're not going to kill you. They don't bother to clean out a cell for someone if they mean to kill them, they just kick them out an airlock and be done with it." 

Enjolras shivers. It doesn't surprise him what Security is capable of, but even so it's shocking to hear it said so casually, a simple fact of life. "What's your name?" 

His only answer is a long stretch of silence, followed by a rushed, "We shouldn't be talking. They'll punish us. They're always watching." 

Enjolras looks up at the pane of glass set into the wall, placed at the perfect angle so that if a camera were set behind it, it could observe every part of the cell all at once. And he turns and looks at the narrow window set into the door, the one that the other prisoner was so shocked to see had been left transparent rather than opaque. 

"They're not filming me," he says, and a slow grin spreads across his face. 

The only reason to give a prisoner a window is to be able to see inside. That would only be necessary if you didn't already have eyes inside the cell, to be able to monitor the prisoner's behavior and ensure your guards aren't walking into an ambush any time they enter the cell. If every other cell but Enjolras's is left opaque, he must be the exception because his surveillance isn't working. 

Or simply isn't being utilized. 

"Don't be naive," his neighbor hisses. "They film everyone." 

"Not everyone." Enjolras tips his head back against the wall and laughs. "Not me." 

Because a running video feed would mean they'd have to put that data somewhere, and there's nowhere they could save it that Grantaire wouldn't be able to find it, and find him. And Grantaire would be looking, of course he would be looking. 

When he's fought down the bubble of hysterics, Enjolras says, "Keep your voice low and look like you're keeping to yourself and we can talk without them knowing." 

His neighbor is silent for a minute, for two, for longer, until Enjolras starts to wonder if he's too wary to risk it after all. But then his voice comes, even lower than before, and demands, "Who _are_ you?" 

"I told you my name, but I still don't know yours." It feels important, here in this place where they're nothing, where they're not even seen, where Security will snarl _prisoner_ in their face like they're interchangeable. It's important and he clings to it. It's something not even Security can take from them. 

There's a sound like a sigh, and then, "My name is Jean." 

"Jean." Enjolras presses his hand against the cool metal of the wall between them. "It's very nice to meet you." 

"You still haven't answered my question," Jean says, and it's hard to tell through the wall, but he sounds wry. 

_Who are you_ , and Enjolras knows Jean was asking for more than just his name. He laughs a little, quietly and beneath his breath. "A traitor, if you ask Security." 

Jean's reply comes swiftly and too loud, suddenly ferocious. "I'm not interested in what Security thinks of you." 

Enjolras takes a moment to think about how to answer. "I'm just a man," he says at last. "I'm just someone who asked questions, and didn't stop asking until I found honest answers. The rest of it's a story too long to tell through a wall, I'm afraid." 

"I hope someday to be able to hear it," Jean says, and it sounds warm. It sounds kind. 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and leans his head back against the wall, fighting back a sudden ache in his chest that hurts worse than anything else Security has done to him. "Someday, I will tell it to you." He won't say _hope_. He refuses. It's too fleeting, too fragile. Hope is the last refuge of a man who's given up on everything else, and he won't be broken so quickly, nor so easily. There's still plenty of fight left in him. 

He doesn't have much, but at least he has that.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warnings:** physical abuse and mild self-harm

The next time he has a meal, it's some sort of grey meat with the same overcooked vegetables and what he supposes is meant to be toast, but is virtually inedible because it's as hard as steel. When the meat and vegetables alone do little to sate the gnawing in his stomach, he stabs at the toast with his fork to see if it might succeed in breaking off a piece. 

The toast doesn't yield, but the fork does. One of its tines breaks off, stuck standing upright in the toast. Enjolras stares at it for a long moment, and then at the fork. Then he pulls the broken tine out, rolls it between his fingers, and then sets it carefully aside. 

When the next mealtime comes, Enjolras places the broken fork with the rest of the dishes on the tray and places it in the pass-through, and then stands there with his heart racing while it's taken through to the other side. He waits for an exclamation, waits for an alarm, waits for some indication that they've noticed his small theft and understood the meaning of it. But all he gets is a grunt and the rattle of the pass-through as his new tray is delivered. 

He doesn't dare to breathe for long minutes after the officer delivering meals has left. And then he lets all the air in his lungs out in a rush and he pulls the tray through and sets it on the floor, grabs the new fork and sets to working one of the tines back and forth until it snaps off just like the first. 

He only takes one. Any more would be too obvious, too likely to attract attention. One broken tine can be attributed to an accident. But he sets the first beside the second and then eats quickly, for the necessity of it. He scarcely tastes the food, and counts it as a blessing. 

And when he's finished, he sits cross-legged on the floor in front of his cot, tips it over onto its side, and starts prodding at the joints and the ends of the frame, searching for somewhere he can hide them that won't be easily found. 

The cot's frame turns up little that's promising, so Enjolras settles instead for working a small hole into the hem of the blanket. He slips both tines into the pocket formed by the seam and maneuvers them through until they're tucked safely inside, unlikely to fall out on their own. It makes the blanket just a little bit stiffer, where the tines lay and keep it from folding as it normally would, but he doesn't think it's noticeable, if you don't know to look for it. He thinks it's enough. 

And by the time he has enough hidden away in there to make it obvious that there's something strange going on with the blanket, he'll have enough to figure out what he's going to do with them. He isn't sure yet, he only knows he has to seize every opportunity that comes his way, and hold on with both hands. 

*

Enjolras is studying the hall outside his cell door -- or at least what he can see of it -- when someone suddenly walks by, very near, and his heart about leaps out of his throat in surprise. It's not Security, though; it's the same ragged-looking man he's seen before. This time, he doesn't shrink away when he sees Enjolras looking back at him. He comes forward and he looks curious, looks inquisitive, his brows furrowing as he looks Enjolras over. 

"Are you Jean?" Enjolras asks him through the window, and hopes that he's right. He thinks he is. 

A brief smile pulls at the corners of the man's mouth. "Yes." He casts a glance over his shoulder, and when he looks forward again he looks troubled once more. He drops his voice until it's barely audible through the thick cell door. "Not here. There are cameras in the halls, too. If they see me lingering..." 

"They won't." Enjolras had already noticed the darkened-glass panel in the wall of the corridor opposite his door, the mirror of the one in his cell. "It's pointed directly at my cell. With the window transparent, it can see in, so it won't be running." 

Jean hesitates and frowns at him, looks at him long and hard like Enjolras is a puzzle he can't quite figure out. "You sound very sure of that," he says at last, doubtfully. 

"I am." 

Jean darts another worried look around, down both directions of the corridor. But he must be relieved by what he sees, because he presses in closer to the door and doesn't leave. "I'd very much like to know why." 

"It's part of that long story I promised to tell you," Enjolras says. "But it's still too long to be told like this." 

"Be _very_ sure," Jean says, looking solemn. "If they've accused you of treason, then I'm putting my life in your hands even to talk to you." 

"I'm sure," Enjolras says, and says it like an oath. And then he adds, "But you shouldn't take undue risks on my account. Are they expecting you somewhere?" 

Jean nods once. "We're given exercise privileges if we behave ourselves. They don't like to escort us themselves, though. Puts them at too much risk to be that hands-on. They do it all remotely. The cell door opens, for those who've earned the privilege, and the door to the yard opens, and if we don't make it out there in the time allotted for it then they assume we're up to something we shouldn't be, and we suffer for it." 

"I don't want to get you into trouble," Enjolras says, rushed. "Go." 

Jean inclines his head in acknowledgment. "Perhaps once you've earned the privilege, too, we can walk the yard together and you can tell me that story, without cell walls between us." 

Enjolras swallows down a knot in his throat and nods. He lets Jean go, and lets him believe that that might be a possibility for the future, but Enjolras knows better. Even if he were a model citizen, he doesn't expect Security to ever allow him out of his cell. The things he knows are too dangerous, and the risk he'd tell them to others too great. He could be on his best behavior and they'd still let him rot in here. 

But all that's irrelevant anyway. He doesn't intend to behave himself at all. 

*

It's difficult to mark the length of a day, when he has nothing to mark the passage of time but for meal deliveries and the regular onset of exhaustion. Still, he guesses as best he can, and he picks a long thread out of the blanket and ties a series of knots in it to count each day as it passes. 

It's been a week by his count, give or take a few days, when he's lying in bed, feeling the small, hard shapes of the stolen fork tines hidden in the blanket's edge, staring at the ceiling overhead as he tries to think of the best way to use them to his advantage, when he feels the ship's hum change as it works its way up through the cot's frame and into bones. 

He pushes himself up on an elbow first, frowning as he focuses on it, trying to figure out what's changed, and why it attracted his attention. 

A few more minutes pass and it becomes clear enough. The hum is fading, the engines winding down. Enjolras's heart pounds so hard it hurts as he scrambles off the cot and presses his hands to the floor to feel the vibrations better. 

The hum fades and fades until it leaves the ship in perfect silence, perfect stillness, and Enjolras wants to throw up. He stares at the light overhead and fights down the panic and the bile that both rise up within him. 

It's not Grantaire, he tells himself. It's not. He's fine. He _has_ to be. The last time the engines died like this because of him, because he was ill and dying, it wasn't just the engines. It was everything. The lights wouldn't be holding as steady as they are if something was wrong with Grantaire. 

Slowly, slowly, so faint he doesn't dare believe it for long, excruciating minutes, the engine's home comes back. It gains strength just as steadily as it had lost it, but even so, there's something wrong about it. Something strange. Enjolras crouches there with his palms pressed flat to the floor and a strange sense of _something's not right_ plucking at his thoughts until at last he can't bear it anymore. He pushes up from his crouch and throws himself across the cell, beats his hand desperately against the wall, over and over, until his whole hand stings. Until he hears what he's been waiting for: Jean's voice, low but exasperated from the other side of the wall, snapping, "I'm here, I'm here! Stop that!" 

"You felt that, right?" 

"The engines?" 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and leans his forehead against the cool metal of the wall. "Did you hear anything when you were in the yard?" 

There's a pause, and when he speaks, Jean's voice is confused. "Hear anything about what?" 

"Just. Anything." Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and fights the panic gripping his heart. "Anything unusual. Anything worth repeating." 

This time, the silence stretches longer. "We're not allowed to talk. _We_ shouldn't even be talking, you know that. If it didn't come from you, I haven't heard anything." 

It's a struggle just to breathe. _It's not Grantaire, it's not Grantaire,_ he tells himself. But it's getting harder and harder to believe it. "Tomorrow, when you get to go out again. Will you talk to the others? I know it's dangerous, but if you can. As much as you can. Please?" 

Jean is very quiet. "I'll see what I can do," he finally says, gruff, and Enjolras knows that's the best he's going to get from him. 

"Thank you." 

Jean just grunts in response and Enjolras moves back to his cot, the conversation over. He moves back to his cot and shuts his eyes, focusing on the feel of the vibrations. They're back now, and steady, and that should be reassuring. But there's still something off about them that makes unease twist through his chest. If something's wrong with Grantaire and he's not there... 

He doesn't think even an hour has passed when the loud, mechanical clang of his door's locks sounds throughout his little cell. The door bursts open before he can even get to his feet and Security swarms inside. 

He's dragged off the cot with a grip on his wounded arm that makes him cry out and stagger. As before, Security tears through his cell, flipping his cot over, tearing blanket and pillow off the bed. Others brace him against the wall, an arm across his chest to hold him pinned, and they don't relent at all when the point of an elbow digs into his wound and makes him scream, makes his vision go white and his knees loose. 

"Shut up," someone snarls, and a fist catches him across his cheek. Someone else gets him in the stomach, knocking all the air from his lungs, and when the hands abruptly release him he crumples to the ground. 

He's still fighting for breath when he becomes aware of a presence looming over him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, sighs when it comes away with a smear of blood, and then tips his head up. 

One of the officers is standing over him, Enjolras's blanket bunched in his fist, showing the ragged end where Enjolras had torn the strip to make his sling. "Destruction of property will get you short rations for a week," he sneers down at Enjolras. "Behave yourself, and perhaps we'll decide we can trust you with another." 

And with that, they leave as though on cue, taking Enjolras's blanket as they go, and all the little bits of metal he'd painstakingly collected along with it. 

Enjolras slumps down on the floor, fighting just to catch his breath. He lifts his good hand to scrub the frustrated, pained tears from his eyes and allows himself to lie there to a count of one hundred. Then he rolls himself over and upright, groaning, and gets to work setting what's left to him back to rights. 

Several long minutes after Security has left, there's a hollow knock on the wall, two slow and two quick, followed by Jean's faint voice, asking, "Are you all right?" 

Enjolras shuts his eyes. He wants to say no, he wants to say he's worried and heartsick. He wants to tell Jean that they took everything he had spent this time painstakingly collecting and now he's got nothing again. 

He swallows all those words down, and what he says is, "I'm fine." His voice is creaky and a little hoarse, but Jean will have to forgive him for that, considering the day's excitement. He moves closer to the wall and sits down against it so they won't have to talk so loud. "What did you learn?" 

There's a long silence, a hesitation, and Enjolras knows just from that that the news isn't good. But even so, he isn't prepared for it when Jean says, "They didn't let us out today." 

He bolts upright. "They let you out every day." 

Jean's laughter is faint and wry. "Not always. Sometimes they forget about us down here, if they have other things preoccupying their attention. We're prisoners, we're not exactly high priority." 

A failing or faltering engine would be very, very preoccupying, Enjolras is sure. 

"They'll remember us again eventually," Jean promises. 

It's not much, but it's all they have. Enjolras nods to himself. "All right. Be ready, then, for when they do. And then you can ask around." 

*

Enjolras is pacing the length of his cell, back and forth and back again, because if he's moving it's easier to ignore the way the engine's hum still feels wrong, when something slides and scrapes beneath his foot. He steps back and crouches down, and there lying on the floor is one of the fork tines he'd stolen. It must have been knocked free of the blanket when Security had been in here throwing things around. 

Enjolras smiles, slow and broad, and closes it in his fist. And this time, he determines to find a place to hide it where it will be safe from Security. 

*

Sleeping in the cell was always a difficult proposition to begin with, the lights too bright and the environmental controls set to just on the wrong side of chilly. Now, without the blanket to pull over his head and offer some shelter from the light, and its meager warmth over the rest of him, Enjolras huddles on the cot curled into a tight ball, shivering and miserable as he presses his face against his arm to try to block out the lights. 

He spends more time trying to sleep than he does actually managing it, and even then its fitful and leaves him exhausted. 

*

Security comes the next day, and the day after. They still trash Enjolras's cell, though there's little left for them to toss around, but most of their energy now seems focused on Enjolras. They shove at him, they punch him. Once, when his feet get knocked out from underneath him and he ends up sprawled on the floor, someone aims a kick with a sharp boot right at the soft part of his belly. 

They're trying to soften him up, or break him down, he thinks. But he doesn't even know for what, because in spite of it all, they still never ask him a question, they never probe for information. 

Jean still tells him, every day, that they haven't been let out for their exercise privileges yet, and he reassures Enjolras that it's normal for Security to forget about them for a while, but it never lasts long. 

Enjolras prods at the tender bruise across his ribs, grimacing, and doesn't say that he doesn't think that's what this is. Being forgotten about would be a blessing. 

*

Each day, Security comes, and each day, the beatings get worse, and Security bothers less with any sort of pretense for them. It's the fourth day, or maybe the fifth, when Enjolras's temper snaps. A Security officer has him by the throat, pinned to the wall and struggling for air while others land blows across his whole body, and Enjolras's ability to endure vanishes. He lashes out, snarling, _fighting_. He lands a kick onto someone's kneecap, scrapes long, bloody tracks down someone else's cheek. He catches the one pinning him with an elbow across the cheekbone and laughs in primal, savage satisfaction when it splits the skin across the bone and draws blood. 

It's a brief, fierce moment of violence, but it's only a moment, and then the Security officers regroup and get him pressed to the wall again, and the one who'd had his throat grabs him by it again and snarls at him, "Go on, keep fighting. You're not spent yet, are you?" His fingers bite into Enjolras's jaw and he sneers, disdainful. "I thought you'd put on more of a show. How disappointing." 

They leave him, then, and Enjolras lies on his back on the floor, gasping, hurting, waiting for it all to start to fade. When they've gone, Jean knocks on the wall and asks, "Are you all right?", the same way he always does after they've left, and Enjolras says, "Quiet a moment. I'm thinking," without moving from where he's lying. 

There's something sticking in his mind, something that won't let him rest. He turns it all over and over and tries to figure out what, and why. This beating was more vicious but otherwise no different than any of the last, but this time there's something nagging at him, a quiet voice, too faint to make out but too insistent to ignore. 

He's on his back still, staring blindly up at the ceiling as his thoughts whirl. And slowly, he realizes that he's staring at the little glass panel at the top of the wall, and everything comes slowly into focus. 

They haven't been asking him any questions. All this time, a week or more rotting away in this cell, and they haven't asked him a single thing. 

It could be nothing, what the Security officer said. An unthinking turn of phrase and nothing more. Or it could be everything. 

This isn't an interrogation, and it never has been. 

They're putting on a show. 

Enjolras pulls himself to his feet and turns, standing in the middle of the cell and staring up at the glass panel, the video camera hidden behind it, and he covers his face with his hands. "I am so stupid." 

Jean's quiet knock comes again. "Enjolras?" He sounds worried. " _Are_ you all right? Answer me." 

"I'm an idiot, that's what I am," Enjolras growls. 

He thought they wouldn't record him because it would only help Grantaire identify where he's being held and send all his friends running to his rescue. He thought they'd keep him hidden away, a dark secret. And then he thought they'd try to get him to tell them where Grantaire could be found. 

He is so, _so_ stupid. 

They've been filming him all along. Of course they have. Why spend the time and effort trying to get Enjolras to reveal where Grantaire can be found, when they can convince Grantaire to walk straight into their arms. 

_Putting on a show._ That's why they've been tossing his cell, though there's nothing to find. It's why they've been beating him. They aren't afraid Grantaire is watching, they _know_ he is. And they think hurting Enjolras will draw him out. 

A cold, violent fury seizes Enjolras's heart in a grip like a fist. He sits on his cot with his back to the camera, so Security won't realize what he's up to, and he pulls the broken tine of the fork out of the hem of his shirt where he'd hidden it for safekeeping. 

The end isn't sharp, exactly, but it's narrowed to a point, and it will do. He scrapes it across the palm of his hand, pushes hard and scrapes it deep until red lines stand out stark against his pale skin. 

Then he rises and drags the cot over to stand on its end, propped up against the wall just beneath the camera. He climbs up onto the cell's toilet, and then onto the pipe running out from the wall to feed water to it, and it gives him enough height, just barely enough. He reaches up with his scored hand, holds it in front of the pane of glass for a minute, for two, long enough that there's no doubt Grantaire will be able to find it and see it, see the message Enjolras wrote onto his own skin, the letters big and bold and impossible to miss: 

STAY  
AWAY  
**TRAP!!!**  


When he's done delivering his message, he leans out precariously and grabs the cot, grips its frame tight and swings it so the metal foot crashes down against the metal panel. He strikes it again and again, until the glass fractures and then breaks, revealing the mechanisms hidden behind. 

His foot slips with one of the blows, and all his weight lands hard on the plumbing pipe, hard enough the horizontal length of pipe dents, and the joint starts spewing water like a fountain. He ignores it, ignores the way it soaks his foot and the leg of his pants in an instant, just regains his footing and continues to beat the cot's leg against the little cubby behind the pane of glass until the camera inside is bent and broken, too, a mess of jumbled wires. And then he reaches in and tears those out, too, for good measure. 

There's a pool of water spreading across the floor of his cell, but it doesn't matter. He's done what he can to keep his friends safe. He puts his cot back in its place and sits on it, legs folded to keep his feet out of the water spreading to seep out beneath the cell door. 

" _Enjolras._ " 

"I'm fine, Jean," Enjolras says, and leans his back against the wall. "I'm just fine." 

*

He sleeps eventually, lulled by physical exhaustion and the sound of the water running from the broken pipe. When he wakes, his entire floor is a puddle, running from wall to wall and out under the gap beneath the door, into the hallway beyond, but the pipe has stopped running. No doubt the water in the corridor alerted Security to the leak and they turned the water off to his cell to keep everyone else from being flooded. 

He stays on his cot where it's dry, on his back, aching and sore and cold without a blanket to cover up with. There's little to do, so he drifts, dozing off and on, listening for the sound of Security, or of Jean on the other side of the wall. 

The sound of the door's locks clanging open makes his heart lurch up into his throat, his pulse racing between one breath and the next. He's too tired to do this again, too worn, and he's sure they'll be even more violent with him now that he's spoiled their plans to lure Grantaire into a trap. He rolls onto his side, curled toward the wall, and just waits for them to grab at him and do what they will. 

Wet footsteps pace into the cell, slow and measured. "Well, you've made a right mess of things, haven't you?" 

Enjolras rolls over and uncurls slowly, pushing himself upright. He stares at the Security officer standing in his cell, arms crossed and foot tapping and staring at him with an eyebrow arched like he owes her an explanation. 

_"Floreal,"_ he breathes, and breaks into a brilliant smile. 

Her stern expression softens a little at that, an answering smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Her arms relax a little where they're crossed over her chest. "Hello," she says, gentler. "You look terrible, I have to say." 

Enjolras lets out a breath of laughter and shuts his eyes for a moment, swaying with the swiftness of his relief. "Well, I wasn't expecting company." 

He opens his eyes in time to see her grin, quick and sharp. "Good. I'm glad they've left your sense of humor intact, at least." She pulls a series of tools off of her belt and holds them out to Enjolras. "Now come over here and help me. I don't have much time before I'll be expected back at my station, and there will be questions if I don't get this pipe fixed, but we've lots to talk about." 

Enjolras scrambles off the bed and across the cell to her. He takes the tools she gives him, starts to move over to the corner with the broken pipe but she keeps hold of them, too, until Enjolras stops and looks back at her, questioning. 

She looks up at him, her gaze searching his for a long, still moment. "I'd almost be inclined to hug you," she says softly, "but I don't expect you're feeling terribly keen on being touched right now." 

Enjolras lets all his breath out in a long, unsteady stream. "You can, if you want." 

She looks at him a moment longer, considering. And then she lets go of the tools and steps in, slides her arms around his back and embraces him carefully. 

Enjolras wraps his arms around her in turn, and for his part, he holds on tight. He presses his face to her shoulder and breathes raggedly, undone by the unexpected gift of a gentle touch. 

"You're an idiot," she breathes against his ear, softly, warmly, and her embrace doesn't falter. "And you've caused Grantaire more grief than you needed to with all your foolish bravado. But I'm very glad to see you, and I'm very sorry." 

Enjolras nods against her shoulder and then lifts his head, fills his lungs. "Grantaire. Is he all right? The engines--" 

Floreal squares her shoulders and takes his hands in hers, wrapping his fingers tighter around the tools. "Let's work," she says, brisk once again. "And then we can talk." 

Enjolras follows her over to the corner with the broken pipe and takes up a position opposite from her, tools at hand and a hundred thousand questions all poised at the tip of his tongue. "Okay," he says. "I'm ready."


	20. Chapter 20

Enjolras and Floreal work in silence for a few minutes, while Floreal grunts and throws her weight against her wrench to work free the damaged section of pipe. Enjolras watches and mostly helps by handing her tools, or holding on to the pipe's end when she needs an extra hand. She doesn't ask much more than that from him, and he assumes it's because she knows he's bruised and sore, and maybe even knows about the bullet wound, which is healing but not quickly. But mostly he waits, despite the need to know how his friends are doing, how _Grantaire_ is doing, that's burning him up from the inside out. Finally, when the pipe comes free, Floreal drops it into her bag, sighs, and looks up at Enjolras. 

"He's all right," she says quietly, solemnly. "He's fine. Well, as fine as he can be, considering--" She sweeps a hand out, indicating Enjolras's cell. "He's livid, of course, you must have expected that. He'd take Security on single-handed, if he had the chance, but he knows better. He figured out this was a trap quicker than you did, by the way," she adds, her lips curving into a wry smile. 

Enjolras should have seen it sooner. He should have. If Grantaire had walked into a trap and Enjolras had _let_ him... The guilt gnaws at him and he hangs his head, shamed, until Floreal gives a sharp laugh and prods at his shoulder with the end of her wrench. 

"Stop that. That's not useful to anyone." 

Enjolras looks up at her, through his lashes. "How _is_ he, though? He was very upset, when I last saw him. When I left him." 

"Of course he was," Floreal says softly. "But you did the right thing by my book, if that's what you want to hear. You kept him safe." 

Enjolras swallows down the stone in his throat. "I promised I would." 

She nods once, like that means something. Like that carries weight. And then she grabs her wrench and a new section of pipe, presses the pipe into Enjolras's hands and shows him where to hold it, so she can fix it into place. "He's upset," she says quietly, when their heads are bowed together over the pipe and her hands are busy with the work. "He misses you. He worries for you." 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and shudders and hates himself for putting Grantaire through that, even knowing that it was the right thing to do, that any other option would have been worse. "The engines," he says. "What happened? Is he ill?" 

"Oh no," she says with a little laugh. "Mad, perhaps, but not sick." She looks up and holds his gaze for a long moment, searching it. "He's doing fine with his medications, I'm told. The records you found helped. They're keeping him stable. That's not what that was." 

"Then _what?_ " 

Her eyelids flutter, her expression going a little flat. "No, I'm not going to tell you that here," and Enjolras resists the urge to hurl the pipe and the wrench and everything else he can grab into the walls. "Even with the cameras down, the walls have ears, and I won't have this coming down on you or me or him before they're ready." 

_"Floreal."_

"He's scheming," she tells him, and a smile flickers at the corners of her mouth. "You'd be proud." 

"Of course I'm proud," he says hotly, automatically, and Floreal laughs. 

It's the work of a few more moments to get the pipe secured in place, and then Floreal goes still. She looks up at Enjolras and there's something fierce and determined on her face. 

He doesn't move when she steps in close. "I'm going to have to repair the camera," she tells him in an undertone, and he shudders. 

"They're going to keep doing this." 

Her eyes are so sad, so sympathetic. "I expect they are, yes. But not for long. And in the meantime..." She reaches out and takes his hand. He wants to laugh, that she thinks a simple touch might be enough to help him endure, and he wants to cry, because he thinks she might be right. But she doesn't clasp his hand in hers, and she doesn't say anything sweet and overly sentimental. She presses something into his palm, something hard and sharp-edged, and her gaze holds his as she says, " _Do not let them find this._ " 

He pulls his hand from hers so he can look. It's a little datascreen battery pack, and for an instant he's confused. But then he feels along the edge and finds the catch there, remembers Feuilly's hands guiding his. "It's the beacon," he breathes, and Floreal smiles like she's proud of him for figuring it out so quick. 

"Slightly modified, since there's little point in trying to find you when we know where you're being kept." She closes his fingers around it, holds them shut when the beacon buzzes against his palm and he startles, surprised. "There, that would be him." 

It takes Enjolras a moment to understand her meaning. He stares down at his hand, wrapped in hers, and then up at her again. "Grantaire?" he breathes, past the thickness closing off his throat. 

Floreal's smile turns infinitely sad. "He wanted a way to let you know you weren't alone." 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and staggers back, groping for the cot until he finds it and can drop down onto it. "Oh, stars," he breathes. His whole chest hurts, aches like it's being torn open to lay him bare. 

Floreal drops down into a crouch right in front of him and covers his hands with hers. Her skin is cool against his, her touch light. "You can't let them find it," she says, quiet but urgent. "No matter what. If they realize what that is, they'll trace the signal back to the others, and then they'll all be in cells right next to you, and Grantaire will be back where you found him." 

"They won't find it," Enjolras promises, low and raw. It's a precious gift, and there isn't much he wouldn't do to protect it. "Floreal... Thank you." 

She nods once, brisk. "You need to get a grip now," she says as she rises to her feet. "I have to replace that camera before people start to wonder what's taking me so long, and you don't want them seeing you all worked up like this. You don't want them to wonder why." 

"Right." He scrubs his empty hand over his face and allows himself two shuddering breaths. Then he drops his hand, tucks the beacon into the little pocket he'd already ripped into the hem of his shirt. It hangs against his hip, the barest of weights, and buzzes encouragingly. Enjolras brushes his hand over it and draws a breath, looks at Floreal and gives a nod. "Okay. I'm good." 

He sits on the cot while she works, knees bent, doing his best to look surly, the way any prisoner might at Security's presence within his cell. It takes Floreal time, and she mutters a few oaths beneath her breath and once comments over her shoulder, "Congratulations, you did a number on things up here," but eventually she makes a sharp sound and then says, "All right, we're live in a count of ten. So let me just say while I can, don't do anything stupid. If I have to console Grantaire through a broken heart, I don't think any of us will forgive you. So keep your head down and do what they tell you and _give us a chance to help you._ " 

Enjolras draws a breath to reply, but she holds a finger up. "Live in three," she warns. "There's no more time for chatting. Just _do it_ , do you understand me?" 

He answers her with a glare that just makes her flash a grin. It's gone as soon as it comes, leaving her looking weary and a little bored and like she's taken absolutely no notice of Enjolras beyond what's necessary to do her job. She dusts her hands off on her thighs as she gives the video camera a critical look, then pulls out her datascreen and speaks into it, "We're clear here. Let me out." 

The door's locks sound and Floreal picks up the last of her tools and steps out into the hallway. She doesn't look back at Enjolras, not even once. She's very good at the pretense. 

Enjolras isn't stupid enough to press his fingers against the beacon and risk drawing attention to it. He sits just the same, perfectly still. And when the beacon buzzes quietly against his side, he shuts his eyes and breathes carefully, and lets the vibrations work their way into his skin. 

*

In the middle of the night when Enjolras is curled on his cot, trying to sleep despite the chill, the beacon buzzes against his hip. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter and leans his weight into it. _Why aren't you asleep?_ he wonders as the beacon buzzes a second time, and then a third, even though he's pathetically grateful for that sense of connection. _You should be sleeping, not sitting up worrying about me. You'll need your rest._

Still, the beacon keeps buzzing, at odd intervals as the night stretches longer, until at last it lulls Enjolras to sleep. 

*

The day after Floreal repairs the camera, Security comes back for him. He shuts his eyes and remembers Floreal's words, focuses on that instead of the pain. He doesn't fight, he just lets them do what they will, and the worst part is when the beacon hums to life, vibrating a frantic pulse that doesn't end, and Enjolras knows that Grantaire is watching. 

He'd smash the camera again just for that, not because of the trap Security's laid out for Grantaire but just to spare him. But before he can do more than formulate the thought, the lights overhead abruptly go out, casting the cell into darkness. Some light filters through from the corridor outside, but a moment later those shut off too, cloaking everything in black. 

Enjolras lays where he is, the beacon pressed between his stomach and the floor, and bites back his breathless laughter so Security won't hear it. _Clever Grantaire,_ he thinks, and wishes there were some way to pass the message on. 

Security doesn't come to him for information. The only thing they want is for Grantaire to watch him suffer. With the lights out, the camera is as blind as they are. There's nothing to see. 

There's no reason to hurt him. 

There's a quick, hurried exchange above his head, and he doesn't bother to listen in. He just focuses on the buzz against his skin that means Grantaire's there, that he's not alone. 

When the lights don't come back on after a moment, one of the Security officers grunts and aims a grudging kick at him, but then they leave, sooner than they ever have before. And if the cell door sounds as though it's been slammed in a fit of temper when it clangs shut, perhaps it's just Enjolras's imagination, but perhaps it isn't. 

Alone again, he rolls over onto his back and laughs and laughs. The beacon stops buzzing in his hem like Grantaire can hear it, like he knows that Enjolras is all right. 

The lights stay out. It isn't any warmer in the cell, but the darkness feels like a blessing. Enjolras curls up on his cot and takes advantage of it. His shoulder throbs from the abuse, but despite it once he's able to fall asleep, he sleeps long and hard. When he rouses the lights are on again, but kept low, so the glare isn't too harsh while he wakes. He smiles up at the ceiling overhead, at the lights recessed into it, and starts a mental list of all the things he's going to thank Grantaire for, when he gets the chance. 

*

Enjolras's stomach is aching, and he can't be sure without a clock to mark the passage of time, but he's fairly sure that their supper is late. 

He paces along the length of his cell, counting laps rather than minutes, until he's counted high enough and he's grown weary enough that he's _sure_ they're late. 

He presses in close against the window and strains to see outside, for some indication if the meal is even coming or not. But as ever, he can't see anything but the narrow strip of hallway and the wall directly across from his door. 

He crosses back to the long wall of his cell and raps his knuckles against it, waits until he gets a quick double-knock in reply that means Jean's there, and listening, and free to talk. 

"They haven't brought you your meal yet, have they?" Enjolras asks. He wouldn't put it past Security to simply deny him, to vex their frustrations or even simply reaffirm the power that they hold over him. 

Jean grunts. "No, but I was sleeping earlier. I thought maybe I'd missed it. They haven't been by at all?" 

"No. I'm not wrong, am I? They're late." 

"After all these years, you could set a watch by my stomach. And as far as it's concerned, they're long overdue." 

Enjolras hums thoughtfully and moves to the door to look out again. There's nothing more to see there now than there was before. 

"I told you," Jean says. "Sometimes they just forget about us down here, or they've got bigger priorities." 

Perhaps this is how they intend to try to lure Grantaire out now. He can shut the lights down on their abuse and keep blind to it, but starving him out is a slower torture, and not one that can be hidden by a few minutes of darkness. Still, would they starve everyone else as well, just to make a point with Enjolras? 

Another hour passes, perhaps two, and Enjolras is lying on his cot contemplating the likelihood that he'll be able to sleep with his stomach cramped up the way it is when there's a sound, like the metallic clanging of the locks but louder, deafening, and it echoes down the hallway in both directions. Enjolras scrambles up to his feet and over to the door to see what's happening. 

He leans in against it automatically, and he staggers, caught by surprise when it gives beneath his weight. There's a stripe of light between the jamb and the door's edge, and Enjolras stares at it a moment, feeling as though he's gripped in some sort of wonderful, terrible dream. 

He grabs onto the door more securely and pulls at it, and it slides open easily. It leaves him standing there in the doorway, staring out into unexpected freedom. And all along the corridor there are other doors opening, too, other detainees stepping out and blinking like men just coming awake. The whole ward has been unlocked. 

Enjolras turns to the right, to the door just beside his own, standing open just like the others. Jean stands just beyond it, hands braced on the doorframe, staring out with a tormented expression. "It's a trap," he says, hoarse. "It has to be a trap." 

"No." Enjolras reaches a hand out to him, beckoning. "It's a rescue." 

He's sure of it, and with the beacon buzzing steadily against his waist, he's even more certain. "Come out," he says quietly, when Jean still hesitates. "Haven't you been in there long enough?" 

Another moment passes, and then Jean steps through the door, out into the hall. He stares at Enjolras like he's never seen him before. "Who _are_ you?" 

"That answer's the same as it was the first time." 

Jean gives a breath of disbelieving laughter. "You're more than just someone who asked too many questions." 

"No." There's the sound of a commotion from outside the ward, and Enjolras grins. "But I do have some very good friends." 

Jean eyes him critically for a long moment, and then he gives a single, sharp nod. "Well. Let's go help them out, then." 

*

Enjolras doesn't know what they're planning, aside from getting in and getting him out. It makes it hard to know how to help. But he pushes through the crowd of released detainees to the main door at the end of the corridor. This one has a wider window than the cell doors do, and it's left transparent rather than opaque. On the other side, he can see monitors and control panels, camera feeds up on screens showing the chaos in the ward, and a flurry of activity from the Security officers on the other side. 

Enjolras moves back before anyone sees him standing there, looking in on them. He turns to Jean. "We're going to need weapons, I expect." 

Jean gives him a searching look. "I don't have much," he says at last. "But come with me." 

Jean's cell is less barren than Enjolras's. Enjolras supposes that after so many years, and with good enough behavior to earn exercise privileges, he may have earned the privilege to keep trinkets and mementos, too. He has a few little slivers of soap carved into figurines, a book or two, and, pulled out from some sort of hiding place devised beneath his cot, a handful of spoons whose edges have been worn down until they're gleaming and sharp. He offers one to Enjolras. 

Enjolras takes it and tests his thumb against the edge, then gives a low whistle, impressed. "You are full of surprises, Jean." 

Jean grins at him. It's sharp and just a little bit feral. "Convincing them you're a model prisoner does more than just earn you exercise privileges. They don't keep so sharp an eye on us, not when they've got troublemaker new detainees celled right next door and preoccupying all their attention." 

"Thank you," Enjolras says fervently, and tucks the improvised weapon into his fist. 

They make their way back to the door at the end of the hall, though it's not such a struggle this time. The sounds of chaos from the other side of the door have turned to sounds of fighting, and most of the freed detainees have retreated back to the far end of the corridor, packed in close together and eyeing the door anxiously. 

Outside, everything's still a blur of action. Enjolras can't make out faces through the crowded room, but he catches glimpses of movement from people who aren't wearing Security blue. He sees the flash of a knife, a thrown punch, a Security officer knocked right off his feet. 

It's not going to be long now. Either way this works out, they'll know soon enough. He edges back from the door, an arm thrown out to draw Jean away with him. "Give them time," he breathes, watching the door, waiting, so tense he's nearly shaking with it. 

It's the most dangerous thing they've ever done, far more so even than venturing into the void or freeing Grantaire, and Enjolras can't help. He's stuck with a door between them, useless. It's difficult to bear, when he knows his friends might be hurt and desperate on the other side, knows that there's every possibility they might be losing. 

When the sounds of the chaos die and the door slides open, the first thing Enjolras sees is Security-blue. At his side, Jean tenses, his hand clenching around the makeshift blade, and coils like a spring. 

Enjolras throws a hand out, grabbing onto Jean's arm. He could throw Enjolras off in an instant if he wanted to, but instead he pulls himself back. He stays coiled, though, braced to spring, his whole body shaking with it. "No," Enjolras says as he meets Floreal's weary, worried eyes. "Not her. She's with us." 

Floreal gives him a brief, exhausted smile. "Nice to see you've managed to stay in one piece," she says to Enjolras, and steps through the door. 

Enjolras returns her smile, just as strained, just as weary. "I did my best." 

When Floreal's through the door, a flood comes pouring through after her. Or tries to, because the first through is Courfeyrac and he stops right there in front of the doorway and throws his arms around Enjolras, and everyone who follows him joins in the embrace as well, until he's surrounded by the thick press of his friends. Enjolras wants to cry, and he wants to duck out under their arms and run, too overwhelmed by them all after so many endless days of solitude. He stays, though, and grabs on tight with his good arm to everyone he can reach, until they press the air from his lungs and jostle in too close to his bad shoulder and he wheezes a faint, " _Ow._ " 

They release him immediately, swift enough that Enjolras doesn't have to wonder if Grantaire told them how he suffered at Security's hands. 

Éponine pushes through from the back of the pack as the others release him and finish making their way into the corridor. She wraps him in a hug that's fierce, for all that it's careful, and presses her face against his shoulder. "Don't you ever do that again," she says, and her voice wavers. " _Not ever._ " 

Enjolras hugs her back. "I'm sorry," he says, and he doesn't tell her he won't, because they both know he'd do it again if the need arose. He can't promise to save his own skin if doing so means letting others suffer. "Where is he?" 

She lifts her head and sniffs once, but even that is telling. "He's here. I think he ended up at the back of the line. The rest of us figured we'd better get our hugs in while we could, because we all know once you two are reunited you won't have a thought to spare for anyone else." 

It's kindly meant. She says it gently, and with a smile. Even so, it makes Enjolras pull back and frown. "I'll always make time for my friends." 

She rolls her eyes. It makes him feel as though he's on more of an even keel, because the expression is so very _Éponine_. "Yes, well, now you don't have to." 

She sidles aside, and there, just a few paces behind her, is Grantaire, standing very still but with all his weight shifted up onto the balls of his feet. All Enjolras's strength wavers at the sight of him. He slumps a little, and feels a tremble working its way through him. It finds its way into his voice and makes it waver and crack as he says, "I'm sorry." 

The words are like a spell, galvanizing Grantaire into motion. As soon as he speaks, Grantaire breaks and rushes forward, crossing the distance between them in two long strides and catching Enjolras up in an embrace that pulls him in hard against his chest. "Don't," he breathes. "Don't. Don't apologize. Not for this." 

Enjolras throws his arms around his neck and holds on for all he's worth. Grantaire's embrace is as strong as steel, but Enjolras doesn't voice a single word of complaint. He'd suffer the discomfort of his injuries a hundred times over before he'd say or do anything to make Grantaire let him go. 

Enjolras's trembling gets stronger as he holds on to Grantaire, all the strength that he's had to maintain all this while finally crumbling and giving way. He clings, and breathes raggedly where he has his face pressed into Grantaire's shoulder, and it's long, long minutes before he's able to think about anything besides the solid, comforting strength of Grantaire in his arms. 

Even then, when he does pull back, he doesn't go far. He stays pressed in close, only lifts his head and loosens his arms enough to lean back so he can meet Grantaire's eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm keeping us. We should go." 

"No," Grantaire says. He strokes his hands over Enjolras's hair and presses a kiss to his brow, infinitely tender. "We're not going anywhere. We're staying just where we are." 

Enjolras has to pull back a little farther at that, just to focus on Grantaire better. "You did not all just throw yourselves into detainment for me." 

"In a sense, we did," Éponine says from behind him, and he can hear the grin in her voice without having to turn around and look at her. 

"It's the most defensible place in the whole ship," Grantaire says. "It's _designed_ to be a fortress. We've drawn Security's attention onto us now, more than ever before, and there isn't anywhere we could hide that they wouldn't be on us inside of a day. Here, there are locks, ones designed to be impenetrable." 

Enjolras thinks about it for a long, quiet moment. It makes sense. They've never been able to lock Security out the way they would be able to in here. There are doors and locks and food facilities, and though it may be a downgrade from the fresh-picked vegetables they had access to down on Tau, up here in detainment they're better positioned to make a move against Security, when they're ready to do so. 

Enjolras lets out his breath very slowly. "All these people," he says. "They've been suffering longer than I have. We're not going to force them to remain here if they'd rather have their freedom." 

"No," Grantaire says after a moment, and he pulls away as though it causes him physical pain to do so. Even then, though, he doesn't release Enjolras completely. He keeps Enjolras's hand tight in his own, and Enjolras is grateful for it. He keeps at Grantaire's side as he approaches the rest of the detainees, crowded into the end of the hall and watching them all like they're not sure how to make sense of what's happening before them. 

"You are all free," Grantaire says to them. "You may leave, if you wish. Or you are welcome to stay and fight with us. But whatever you decide, I don't expect there will be opportunity to change your minds later, so choose quickly, but choose well." 

It's a marvel to see him like this, strong and sure-footed. He doesn't look scared anymore. He looks angry, and he looks fierce, and Enjolras regrets that it was his actions that forced him to be so, but it's still a joy to witness. 

Most of the detainees choose to leave, and Enjolras can't blame them in the slightest. It will be dangerous out there for them, without the heavy doors to stand between them and Security. But Enjolras expects it's going to be dangerous in here, too. He's been here weeks, perhaps, at most, and he'd happily be done with this place. What wouldn't he give to escape it if it had been years, or more? 

Grantaire gathers up the detainees who wish to leave, explaining how they might leave without Security noticing and where they might wish to go once they're free. While he does so, Enjolras slips his hand from Grantaire's, leans in to press a kiss to his temple when he goes tense at the separation, and returns to the head of the hall to find Jean, and extend the same offer to him that's been made to the others. 

He finds Jean at the center of a knot of stillness, him and Cosette, both of them staring at each other while everyone else around them seems to hold their breath. Enjolras hesitates, glancing uncertainly between the two of them. 

Cosette's voice breaks as she says, "Papa?" 

"It _is_ you," Jean breathes, and the stillness breaks abruptly as Cosette throws herself forward at the same time that Jean rushes in and sweeps her up in his arms. His voice cracks, too, when he breathes, "You're all grown up," against her hair, his face a picture of agony and joy. 

"I've been looking for you," she says at length, pushing at him until he sets her down, her face tilted earnestly up to his. "All this time, I've been looking for you." 

Jean smiles like she's just handed him the world. "And you found me." 

"I--" Cosette's face creases into a sudden frown. "No. I didn't know." She twists, still clutching Jean's hands, and searches through those around her until her gaze lights on Enjolras. "You found him," she breathes. 

Enjolras smiles, wry. "I'd say he found me, actually. I hadn't a clue." 

"You didn't know?" she asks, and there's a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, too, bright and happy and amused. 

"Half the people we know are named Jean. How was I supposed to know that this one was special?" He glances from her to him and gives a sharp laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "All this time, and you didn't think to mention that you're _le Maire?_ " 

Valjean blinks at him, expression like he's been struck dumb. "You know me? You've _heard_ of me?" 

"Stars above. Even were it not for Cosette, I'd know of you. You took on Security. You _won_." 

Valjean grimaces and drops his gaze away. "It was a young man's foolishness. And I'd hardly call it winning, not when it landed me in a cell for half my life." 

"But you won. You made the vote happen, and then you won it. The people chose you for their mayor. That doesn't change just because Security detained you rather than give up their control." Enjolras reaches out and catches Valjean by the arm, then waits until he knows he has his attention. "Would you like to do it again?" He glances sidelong to where Grantaire waits at the edges of his vision, all the detainees who've chosen to leave gathered with him. "You can go, of course, same as the others. You've earned your freedom as much as anyone has. But if you chose to stay, we'd be glad to stand beside you." 

"My daughter is here," Valjean says, his voice rough. "I don't know what help I could be now, but you couldn't make me leave." 

Grantaire nods. "I'll show these people the way out, then." He turns to those gathered around him and talks to them quietly, gesturing, and it's an effort for Enjolras to tear his gaze away and look back to those before him, to Cosette and Valjean and the rest of his friends. 

"Do we have a plan?" he asks them quietly. "These doors are strong, but they won't hold Security back forever." 

"We have a plan," Éponine says, her face bright with it. 

"Mostly it boils down to taking the ship back from Security," Courfeyrac says cheerfully. 

Enjolras grins at him, but then he looks back at Éponine and his smile fades away beneath concern. "And then what? We can get control, I believe that, but can we keep it long enough to find a new home? We've left the planet behind, and the next one out could be years away." 

"Oh no," Éponine says, and her smile turns just a little bit smug. "Grantaire reversed the engines. Didn't you wonder why Security's been in such a tizzy? We've been flying full-speed-ahead back to that planet for days now. A day or two more and we'll be in orbit." 

Enjolras stares at her. "That's why," he breathes. "I knew there was something different, when they stopped and then restarted. It didn't feel right." 

"That would be why." 

And that would explain why Security had started coming down on him so hard right after. He'd thought they'd simply grown impatient waiting for their trap to spring -- but no, Grantaire had forced their hand, and they were trying to lure him out so they could regain control of the ship. Enjolras lets out a long breath. "You have all been very busy." 

The corners of Éponine's eyes crinkle with a smile. "Well, we were very motivated." 

"All right," Enjolras says. "Tell me everything." 

*

There's much to tell, and by the time they've reached the end of it Enjolras is too weary to keep on his feet. Éponine looks him over, grunts, and says, "All right, that's enough of that. We've monopolized you for long enough, I think. Go on, we'll talk more once you've had a decent night's sleep, and perhaps a few meals and a check-up from Joly." 

Enjolras sighs. "That really isn't necessary." 

"We'll let Joly decide that," she says cheerfully. "Go on now, off with you." 

He goes, and finds Grantaire sitting on the edge of a cot in one of the cells. It's not Enjolras's cell, though there's not much variation between them to begin with, and Enjolras doesn't think that's an accident. 

"Hey." 

Enjolras leans in the doorway and gives him a weary, but genuine, smile. "Hi." 

Grantaire pats the cot next to him. "Come here?" 

Enjolras comes and sits down beside him, close enough that they press together from hip to knee. He turns, watching Grantaire as Grantaire stares at his knees. 

"Will you let me see?" Grantaire asks eventually, the words suddenly tumbling out over one another. 

Enjolras isn't sure what he means, at first. But Grantaire looks so solemn and so torn, like he isn't even sure he wants what he's asking for, that Enjolras realizes what he must mean. He hangs his head forward and rubs a hand over his brow. "You don't want that. Haven't you already seen enough?" 

"No," Grantaire says, very quietly. "I want to see." 

There isn't much Enjolras could deny Grantaire, not now. He turns his back slowly, grabs at the back of his collar and works his shirt off over his head. It's a slow, careful process, trying to get himself out of it without hurting or further damaging his shoulder. 

Grantaire is silent for a long moment. Enjolras doesn't look at the skin he's bared, but he knows well enough what Grantaire must see. Enjolras's skin mottled with bruises new and old. 

He lets Grantaire look as long as he needs, lets him keep the silence between them. The light, cool touch of Grantaire's fingers on his back, tracing a shape, makes him shiver and shut his eyes. 

"I got an ointment from Joly," Grantaire says at length. "He says it's good for healing. Will you let me?" 

Enjolras would demur, would protest that it isn't necessary, that he's fine and will heal well enough with enough time. He'd say that their medical supplies are limited and they're bound to have a fight ahead of them, and they shouldn't squander what they have on him. But this isn't just about him. He's keenly aware that every minute Enjolras spent suffering, Grantaire spent watching him suffer, and that's a wound that's more difficult to heal from. If this will help either of them, he doesn't have it in him to refuse it. 

"Yes," he says softly. "I'll let you." And he braces for the gentle touch of Grantaire's hand upon his skin once more.


	21. Chapter 21

The first touch of Grantaire's fingers makes Enjolras go still and quiet beneath his hand. The second, when he comes back with the cool, soothing relief of Joly's ointment, makes Enjolras let his breath out on a long, slow sigh. He leans back into the touch and Grantaire hesitates as though he's startled, then rubs the ointment in with a firmer touch. 

The ointment is soothing, but the weight of Grantaire's hands on him, gentle and caring in a way he hasn't known since before Security caught him, is an even greater balm. His shoulders slump as weeks of tension is soothed out of him. 

"I missed you," he says quietly, and Grantaire's hands hesitate on him for an instant. 

"I didn't mean it," Grantaire answers, just as soft. After a moment, he resumes his ministrations. "I told you I hated you, but it's not true." 

"Oh, Grantaire." Enjolras turns around despite the fact that Grantaire hasn't finished making his way across his back yet. But he has to, pulled by the guilty weight in Grantaire's voice. "I know. I knew as soon as you said the words. Don't think for an instant that I believed it." 

Grantaire lets out a gasp of air like it's been knocked out of him. He drops his head forward and curls his hands around Enjolras's forearms, leaving greasy fingerprints on his skin from the ointment. "I wanted to tell you. As soon as you left, and every minute you've been gone." 

Enjolras's shirt is still balled up in his lap. He finds the hole in the hem and pulls the beacon out, presses it into Grantaire's hands so he can feel the weight and the shape of it. " _You did._ " 

Grantaire closes his fingers around the beacon and makes a sudden noise like he's been wounded. Enjolras follows his gaze down and sees that Grantaire's staring at his shoulder, at the pink, puckered scar where the bullet wound hasn't yet finished healing. " _What did they do to you?_ They didn't do that where the cameras could see." 

"No," Enjolras agrees, wry, and lifts a hand to press his fingers against it. The pressure makes him hiss, and Grantaire makes a low, unhappy sound and wraps his fingers around Enjolras's wrist to pull his hand away. "That was when they first caught me. They have guns. Actual firearms." 

"They _shot you?_ " Grantaire's breathing goes raw and uneven. 

"I'm fine," Enjolras says. He covers Grantaire's hands with his own and squeezes them until they stop trembling. " _Grantaire._ I'm fine. I'm here. I'll heal." 

Grantaire drops his head forward. His throat works in silence for a moment. After an eternity of just their unmatched, ragged breathing, he sets the beacon aside and scoops more of the ointment onto his fingers. He dabs it at the marks across Enjolras's chest, and works it in with a dedicated determination. 

"I love you, I think," Grantaire says, quietly and almost as an afterthought, his brows pinched with concentration as he rubs the ointment across a bruise. Enjolras jerks beneath his touch. "I don't remember what love feels like, but I think it must feel like this." 

Enjolras leans his forehead against Grantaire's chest, his breath shuddering and uneven. "Grantaire," he says brokenly, and can't manage any more words beyond that. 

Grantaire tucks his fingers beneath Enjolras's jaw and tips his face up. He looks so solemn as his gaze tracks over Enjolras's face. Enjolras isn't sure what he's looking for, or what he sees, but after a moment he leans in and kisses away the tears that are welling in Enjolras's eyes. "Don't do that," he breathes. "Please don't. I want you to be happy." 

"I am." Enjolras lays his hand on Grantaire's cheek. He can't lift his other high enough to reach and mirror the touch, but it does the job well enough of keeping Grantaire still so Enjolras can lean in and press a kiss to his mouth. 

Grantaire brings a hand up to the back of Enjolras's neck, an easy pressure encouraging him in as he kisses Enjolras back, his lips careful and soft against Enjolras's. 

Enjolras loses his breath all at once, suddenly dizzy with it. He leans more of his weight in against Grantaire, his arm sliding to curve around Grantaire's neck as he parts his lips. Grantaire makes a sharp sound, like he's startled, and braces a thumb along Enjolras's jaw, stroking warm circles there as he opens, too, and they take the kiss deeper. 

Enjolras is the first to break away, leaning his forehead against Grantaire's chest again and fighting for breath, fighting to calm the frantic flutter of his heart. 

"May I?" Grantaire asks him quietly, his thumb stroking along the edge of Enjolras's jaw. And Enjolras isn't sure what he's asking permission for, but he nods all the same, unable to imagine anything Grantaire might want of him right now that Enjolras would refuse. 

Grantaire leans in. He kisses Enjolras's jaw, where his thumb has been tracing warm circles. He kisses his neck, and where it curves to join his shoulder. Enjolras shivers and lets himself tilt back as Grantaire works his way down, catching himself on a hand, then his elbow, before he drops down onto his back and stares up at Grantaire leaning over him. 

Grantaire holds himself up on an arm as he looks down on him. His gaze tracks over Enjolras's chest and Enjolras's knows it's colored with bruises, with the scar on his shoulder. He hates the way it makes Grantaire's expression cloud and makes unhappiness turn down the corners of his mouth. But when he reaches for Grantaire and cups his cheek, Grantaire smiles and turns his head, pressing a kiss to his palm. 

His kiss is searing, and when Enjolras slides his hand around to thread his fingers through the hair at Grantaire's nape, Grantaire leans down and leaves his kisses instead in a dotted trail that travels across Enjolras's chest, from one bruise to the next. 

His lips are warm and soft, his breath even warmer. Enjolras shuts his eyes and drifts on the feel of Grantaire's mouth gentle on his skin, of his fingertips tracing the circumference of his bruises. Grantaire's lips press reverently against him, press again and again, making their slow path down until Grantaire is kneeling, his hands low on Enjolras's hips and his kisses at his waist. When he asks again, "May I?", his voice rough and there's no doubting what he wants this time. 

Enjolras pushes up onto one elbow, looking towards him. "You would strip me bare, but not allow me to look upon you the same way?" 

Grantaire's brow furrows, hesitation plain on his face. Enjolras remembers how reluctant he was before to be seen, his crushing concern that Enjolras wouldn't like what he looked upon. He starts to speak, to tell him it doesn't matter, that he doesn't have to, but before he can voice the words Grantaire moves back, standing and struggling out of his shirt as though its presence is suddenly intolerable. 

Enjolras sits up so he can watch him. His shoulders are broad and strong, the smooth expanse of his skin broken by the circuitry that tracks across it, gold on brown like fingers curling over his shoulders and coursing down his arms, wrapped around his ribs and dripping down the plane of his stomach. 

When Grantaire reaches for the waist of his pants, Enjolras scrambles to reciprocate, wriggling free of his own pants and then sitting cross-legged on the cot while Grantaire finishes stepping out of his. He holds a hand out, and Grantaire comes to him as easy as that, placing his hand in Enjolras's so that their palms press warm together. 

Enjolras pulls gently at him until Grantaire climbs up on the cot with him again. It's narrow, narrow even for one, but they're neither of them keen on preserving much space between them. Enjolras wraps his arm around Grantaire when he gets close enough, clasping him tight, and for a moment they stay just like that, Enjolras sitting and Grantaire kneeling, pressed close and grasping at each other as they breathe shallowly against one another's skin. 

Enjolras turns his head enough to press a kiss to the slope of Grantaire's shoulder. He tastes like salt and he slips his hands into Enjolras's hair as he kisses farther, following one of the lines of circuitry down his chest. He has his hands braced on Grantaire's sides, high on his ribs, and when he shifts his grip and his thumb grazes across the hard peak of Grantaire's nipple, Grantaire draws a sharp breath and goes very still beneath Enjolras's hands. 

Enjolras pulls back enough to glance up at him. "Was that good?" he asks quietly. 

Grantaire nods. His eyes are unfocused, his face slack. Enjolras watches it closely as he sweeps his thumb across the same path, watches the way it makes pleasure and wonder wash across Grantaire's expression. "It's good," Grantaire says, a little hoarse. "I want--" 

Enjolras waits to see what Grantaire wants, where he should touch. But after a moment of indecision flickering across his face, Grantaire spreads a hand wide on Enjolras's chest and urges him down onto the cot, onto his back. His gaze traces over Enjolras's body, all the skin he's already mapped with hands and mouth. And then he leans down, presses his lips where they'd been before, low on Enjolras's waist, and continues where he'd left off. 

The lower half of Enjolras's body is in better shape than the rest of it. There are still bruises -- a misshapen one on the outside of his thigh, one on his knee, a few across his shin and calf -- but there's more unblemished skin than there isn't. Still, Grantaire kisses and traces his fingers across each one of them, down until he has his fingers curved around the back of Enjolras's ankle and Enjolras's breath is coming quick and shallow. 

When Grantaire turns Enjolras's ankle out with a gentle pressure and kisses a path back up, along the side of his calf and the back of his knee and the inside of his thigh, he isn't following any bruises at all. His path is straight and direct and he ends at the apex of Enjolras's thigh, gazing down on him with an expression of fierce concentration. 

Enjolras is hard, has been for long minutes but has been ignoring it because it's enough just to be together like this, close and warm and so grateful to be near one another. But Grantaire does not seem inclined to ignore it at all. He spreads his hand wide, fingers pressing low on Enjolras's abdomen and framing the base, and he runs his thumb up the underside, watching Enjolras's face, watching for his response. 

Enjolras's eyes slide shut despite himself, every atom within him focused on the warm pressure of Grantaire's hand upon him. He brings a hand up to cover his eyes, overwhelmed all at once as Grantaire strokes his thumb back down and then links his fingers together into a circle, grasping him firmly. 

Grantaire strokes him once, and then again, his touch slow and exploratory. And Enjolras fights for air, his breath gone thin and unsteady, halfway undone just to be here with Grantaire, to have him close and tender and wanting him. 

When Grantaire's weight shifts above him and the grasp of his hand is joined by the soft, warm graze of his lips and a flash of wet heat, Enjolras drags his hand down from his eyes and presses the heel of his palm against his mouth to stifle his cry, low and wondering as Grantaire laps at him, licks at him, tasting every inch before he shifts his weight again and takes Enjolras into his mouth. 

He isn't practiced. If he once was, he lost that along with everything else. But he's _determined_ , and Enjolras thinks shakily that that might be worse. He's already balanced on a knife's edge, pulled taut and straining, and the relentless heat of Grantaire's mouth is enough to undo him in an instant. 

He reaches out, presses his hand to Grantaire's cheek, his jaw, the side of his neck. "Wait," he breathes, and that's all it takes. 

Grantaire is off him in a moment, moving up to press in close against Enjolras, an arm around his back and his weight steadying as he presses kisses against Enjolras's temple and the corner of his eye. "Are you all right?" 

_Am_ I _all right?_ Enjolras thinks unsteadily. But he catches Grantaire's face between his hands and guides him into a proper kiss. "I'm great. I'm _close_." 

The smile that spreads across Grantaire's face is like a sunrise, brilliant and beautiful. "Good." 

Enjolras shakes his head. "Slow down a little?" He kisses him again, slow and thorough. "There's no rush." 

Grantaire nods. He captures Enjolras's mouth again and kisses him until Enjolras is breathless and shivering beneath him. Grantaire's weight is stretched out above him and he shifts it forward, pressing his hips down into Enjolras's, and Enjolras breathes a moan into the kiss. 

"Is this good?" Grantaire asks him softly, bowing his head to press their foreheads together. The air shudders out of his lungs the same as it does Enjolras's, warming the space between them. 

"It's great," Enjolras says, curving his hand around the back of Grantaire's neck, holding him close. "Just like this." 

Grantaire smiles, soft and pleased. And he holds Enjolras's gaze as he moves against him again, pressure and friction building heat between them. The next time he presses down, Enjolras meets him by rocking up against his weight, and watches Grantaire's response flood his face. 

They move together, losing their breath into each other's mouths, until Enjolras works his hand between them and finds Grantaire's nipple again. He rubs firm circles there and moves his kisses to the side of Grantaire's neck when the pressure makes him break away, back bowed over Enjolras and hips hitching. 

His pulse is a frantic beat beneath Enjolras's lips. He presses them there, so he can feel how Grantaire's heart trips when Enjolras slides his hand around his side to his back and trails his fingers down to the narrowest part of his waist. He grabs on there, fingers clutching, and pulls Grantaire down into the next stroke, and the next. 

Grantaire shudders in his arms. He drops his head down to lean his brow against Enjolras's shoulder. The muscles in his back twitch beneath Enjolras's fingers. It ripples through him, has him gasping and moving their bodies together even as he breathes, "It's too much." 

Enjolras turns his touch soothing, and presses kisses to Grantaire's temple and the edge of his jaw. "Do you want to stop?" 

" _No._ " Grantaire shivers against him with another gasp, and pushes them together once more. "But I'm ahead of you." 

Enjolras cups his face between his hands and drops kisses on Grantaire's slack mouth as he says, "No, no. I'm with you. I'm right there." He pushes Grantaire back a little, just enough to break the kiss, and waits until Grantaire's blinked his eyes into focus on Enjolras's face before he asks, "Will you let me see?" 

It knocks the air from Grantaire's lungs. His eyes go wide and he gasps, "Yes." And then the only sound between them is the rough cadence of their breathing and the slide of their skin together. 

It takes a minute, maybe two. Grantaire's movements go more frantic, more urgent. Enjolras soothes him through with gliding touches and light kisses, and all the while Grantaire keeps his gaze locked on Enjolras's, until his breath gusts out of him like an explosion and his eyes go wide, his face shocked with it in the instant before he shudders and spends himself across Enjolras's stomach. 

The lights overhead flicker and flare as Grantaire slumps forward, boneless and twitching against Enjolras's hip. But they don't shatter or burn out or rain down upon them. A moment passes, while Grantaire shakes in his arms and fights to catch his breath. And when he rouses, lifting his head enough to gaze at Enjolras with a stunned expression and then lean in for a messy kiss, the lights steady out and burn just as bright as ever. 

Enjolras beams into the kiss, until Grantaire breaks away and looks down at him, hair falling about his face, cheeks darkened with a flush. "You look smug," he says, smiling. 

Enjolras laughs. "I'm not. I'm _proud._ " He jerks his chin up, past Grantaire, until Grantaire twists to look over his shoulder, at the lights above. He gives a breath that's halfway between shocked and amused and straightens so he's gazing down at Enjolras again. 

"You should be, though," he murmurs with a kiss to the corner of Enjolras's mouth, and adds, "Smug, I mean" as though Enjolras might not have realized what he meant. 

Enjolras brushes a hand over the side of his face. "I'm just happy." 

Grantaire hums a thoughtful note in the back of his throat. "You said you were right there with me," he says at length, and he sounds chiding. 

"I got distracted. There were other priorities." Like watching the pleasure crash across Grantaire's face, and him shudder and go limp in Enjolras's arms. 

Grantaire looks displeased by his answer. In a moment, though, his unhappy frown turns to one of consideration and planning. He fits his hands to Enjolras's waist, holding him in place, and crawls down the bed until he's kneeling between Enjolras's knees, bent over, the hair that's falling in his face brushing against Enjolras's stomach as he bends even lower. Enjolras gets only a lick for warning, and then Grantaire takes him into his mouth. 

He was determined before, and he's even more so now. _He's a fast learner,_ Enjolras thinks giddily. Or maybe he simply pays attention. When a long lick tracing the ridge of a vein makes Enjolras's back arch up off the bed and a strangled whine work its way from his throat, Grantaire gets a thoughtful look and then repeats the caress until Enjolras is panting and flushed beneath him. 

Enjolras gets his hands into Grantaire's hair, both of them. It makes his shoulder twinge a little, but it's nothing to the heat building in him, a fire stoked by Grantaire's hands gliding over him, sliding up to grasp his hips and then down again, to stroke his thighs and hold him down when Enjolras twists too much beneath him. 

It's a slow build, but when it comes on him it feels sudden, and surprising. The heat rises up into an inferno and roars through him as Grantaire grabs his hips tighter to hold him still as he swallows him down as far as he can take him. 

Enjolras shudders beneath him, shattering apart until he doesn't know where his own skin ends anymore. He feels expansive, drifting, even his own mind gone quiet and calm in the wake of the storm. 

Grantaire kisses a trail up his body, until he's stretched atop Enjolras again and Enjolras loops his arm around his back, pulling him down. Grantaire resists a moment, making wordless unhappy noises, but then he relents all at once and lets his weight settle onto Enjolras. The cot's too narrow for them to fit together any other way, but Enjolras isn't willing to relinquish Grantaire yet. He tightens his arm around him and enjoys the weight of him, solid and steadying and grounding. 

"Are you happy?" Grantaire asks him quietly, some moments later. 

Enjolras huffs out a surprised breath. He turns his head, leaving kisses along the edge of Grantaire's jaw. "Never better." 

Grantaire hums a contented note and sifts his fingers through Enjolras's hair. When Enjolras's kisses reach the point of his chin, Enjolras leaves a final one there, and then places another one lightly on his lips. "You said you love me," he says quietly, and even now, with some time to get used to the idea, it still seems like a marvel, a miracle. 

Grantaire pushes up onto an elbow and looks down at him, quiet and solemn. "I meant it." 

"I know. I never doubted it." He presses his forehead in against Grantaire's, his hand coming up to the back of his head to link them there. "You deserve better than to have it said in the throes of passion. It's easy to mean it, when you're drowning in endorphins and pleasure. I couldn't bear it if you thought that was the only reason I said so. But I want you to know I'm going to say it back." 

Grantaire's chest shakes against him, a low, rumbling laugh. He turns his head, pressing his face in against the side of Enjolras's. "You could say it now," he says. "I promise not to doubt your sincerity." He lifts up, looking down at Enjolras again. His lips are curved and his eyes glitter with warm humor. "And then you could say it again later, so I know it's not just the sex." 

Enjolras takes the time to test the weight and the shake of the words on his tongue before he speaks them, allowing himself to grow accustomed to them. "I love you," he says after a moment, and he's watching Grantaire closely as he says it, so he can witness the way it breaks across his face and transforms him, a brilliant smile spreading slowly across, like even after all this talk about it he didn't really expect to hear the words after all. And that's an intolerable thought, so Enjolras links his hands behind Grantaire's neck and says it again, says, " _I love you_ ," as he pulls him down into a fierce kiss. It's broken after only a moment because Grantaire's joyous laughter bubbles up between them. 

Enjolras hugs him tight, pulling Grantaire down to

lie on him once more. Grantaire tucks his face in against Enjolras's shoulder and wraps him in his arms. "I believe it," Grantaire says, his lips tickling across Enjolras's skin as they move. "You should sleep now. Joly will scold me for wearing you out when you need your rest." 

"He won't. I won't let him." But weariness is pulling at him, now that his more immediate needs have given way. And it's so comfortable like this, with Grantaire pressed in against him, arms wrapped around him and legs slotted through his until the two of them are tangled together. He doesn't want to move for hours. He strokes a hand over Grantaire's hair and gives a long sigh that sinks him deeper into the cot. "We'll sleep, to keep his ire at bay. And in the morning I'll say it again, so you'll know I mean it." 

"Say it because it's true," Grantaire says. His words are slowing and growing heavier, his body going lax against Enjolras. "Not because you think I need to hear it." 

Enjolras smiles against his skin. "If I said it every time it was true, I'd never say anything else." 

Grantaire hums happily, sleepily. "That sounds nice," he murmurs. 

Enjolras drifts off to sleep like that, with Grantaire heavy and warm and close, the quiet rush of his breath in his ear and the steady beat of his heart drumming against Enjolras's skin.


	22. Chapter 22

It feels like a luxury to wake slowly, well-rested and warm and with Grantaire still pressed in tight against him, his breath damp against Enjolras's shoulder and his breathing slow, one arm draped across Enjolras's chest as though to keep him there. 

Enjolras lets himself enjoy it, sliding his own arm around Grantaire's back, his hand spread wide across all that warm skin. His thumb traces the circuitry patterns along Grantaire's spine, a gentle touch until Grantaire rouses long minutes later. He stirs in Enjolras's arms and makes a low, unintelligible sound that has Enjolras grinning hard, and then he lifts his head and blinks down at Enjolras as though finding him there with him is the best, most startling surprise. 

"Hi," Grantaire says quietly. His voice is rough with sleep and it makes Enjolras want to kiss him. 

He settles instead for brushing a strand of hair back out of Grantaire's face, and then lets his fingers slide around the back of his neck to push through the hair back there, fine and warm with only the occasional, coarser texture of wire against his fingertips. "Hi," he says back, rearing up for a light kiss, and wonders how he's ever supposed to summon up the will to drag himself out of the bed and away from Grantaire to face the day. 

It's Grantaire who does it, in the end, pushing himself up with a groan as though putting distance between them is physically painful. But he does it, and sits on the edge of the cot scrubbing his hands over his face and pulling his fingers through his hair until it's even more disheveled than it started. "They'll be waiting for us," he says, and even his words drag with reluctance. "There's still work to be done before we reach the planet and enter into orbit around it." 

It's only the truth, and they can't keep the rest of the universe at bay forever. Enjolras sits as well, grimacing at the pull of his bruises and his bad shoulder. Joly's ointment helped, but not even he can work miracles. The bruises will remain sore for days, he expects. The shoulder for longer. 

They dress together, and Enjolras succumbs to the urge to help Grantaire pull his clothing back on for the excuse it gives him to touch for just a few moments longer. Grantaire smiles at him, and brushes kisses against his mouth whenever he gets near enough to reach, and when he's clothed he returns the favor. Enjolras shivers at the brush of his hands, even though Grantaire keeps his movements brisk and efficient. 

Enjolras links their hands when he's finished, and they go out together to face the day. 

*

Most of the others are already up and gathered together in the exercise yard, since it's the only area in the detainment ward with the size to comfortable hold all of them. They're sitting in a loose circle, talking amongst themselves, but half the conversation dies when Enjolras and Grantaire step through the door to join them. 

"You look rather better," Courfeyrac says, smiling brightly as everyone shuffles around the circle to make room between him and Combeferre. 

"I am feeling it." Enjolras clasps his shoulder before lowering himself down to sit with Courfeyrac on one side, Grantaire taking the space on his other. "I hear you all have rescued me only to put me to work." 

It's a joke, and it makes most around the circle smile and some look relieved, as though they've decided that if his humor is intact he can't have been too badly damaged by Security after all. 

Éponine's directly across the circle from him and she doesn't look relieved. She watches him with a keen, assessing eye even as she leans forward to lay her datascreen on the floor between them. "That's our route back to the planet, courtesy of Grantaire and Feuilly. We've two days of travel left, by their calculations. We need to use that time to our advantage, because heavens know Security will already be regrouping and planning a counterstrike." 

"What have you been doing in my absence?" Enjolras asks, because he's sure they've been doing more than sitting around lamenting his detainment. 

"We've continued to spread the word, as much as we were able. Our movements were limited because of Security, but Azelma was able to help. We didn't manage as much as we might have with you, but it's not nothing." 

Enjolras nods. "We need more, though." It's not a condemnation, and Éponine doesn't take it as such. She just nods once, like she'd already thought of that and he hadn't let her get to that point in her own time. "We need the whole ship, or as much of it as we can manage. And we need to get the word out, to everyone. Even those who won't stand at our side. If they don't know what's going on, they'll panic when we start to descend, maybe even when we get near enough for them to realize the ship's turned back the way it came, if they don't know the reason for it. If the people panic, we'll waste half our efforts against them, just at the time when we're going to need to throw our full force against Security." 

"Security still has my communications cut off," Grantaire says beside him. "But I may be able to find a way around that now that we have access to the ward's control center. We should make a new video, though. The information on the one we have is somewhat outdated now." 

Valjean is sitting with Cosette, though set a little back from the circle, as though he feels unwelcome, or unsure of his position within the group. At Grantaire's words, though, he clears his throat to get their attention and leans forward. "Will the others on the ship recognize my name as readily as you did?" 

Enjolras considers it. "Some, perhaps. Not everyone. We didn't learn about you or what you did from Security's curriculum. We heard it from stories from our ward-parents, who'd been there to see it, who'd participated in the vote. Not everyone will have learned of you at a ward-mother or ward-father's knee, and not everyone will have been told the same tales, I imagine. But some will know you. Certainly, more than know the rest of us." 

Valjean nods, looking thoughtful and not altogether pleased. "If you think it'd help to have me in your video, then, I'd be happy to. If you'd like my help, you have it." 

Cosette makes a low sound and grips his arm. "Papa, you have given half your life already to fighting Security. You don't have to give any more." 

"She's right," Enjolras says, with an apologetic glance at Cosette. "You don't have to. But if your help is freely given, we'd be glad to have it." 

Valjean spares him a glance, but gives most of his attention to Cosette, patting her hand where she clutches at his arm. "I have given half my life already, yes. And I would not have it be for nothing. What will that sacrifice mean, if Security goes on as they always have? If I stand aside and then you fail, and I must live with the knowledge that I might have helped you succeed." His expression goes dark and tormented. "I won't lose you, when I've only just found you again." 

Cosette looks as though she wishes to weep, but she keeps herself strong instead, and draws a shaky breath to say, "If you're sure." Marius on her other side, and Courfeyrac close beside him, both reach out to her with gentling hands and low murmurs, and she smiles only a little unsteadily as she turns to them, still clinging tight to her father. 

"We'd be happy of your help, _M. le Maire_ ," Enjolras tells him earnestly. "Your voice added to ours would go far, I think." 

"Oh, stars, don't call me that." Valjean gives a weak laugh and passes a hand across his face. "Call me that when we've won. Call me that if the people of this ship will still have me. But not now. I haven't earned it." 

Enjolras isn't sure what else he thinks it might take to earn the title, when Valjean has already given up so much for it. But he acquiesces with a nod and only says, "We'll find a quiet cell, then, to record the video. And Grantaire, you'll broadcast it to as many as you can, before Security shuts you down?" 

"I'll broadcast it to everyone," Grantaire says, looking steel-eyed and determined. "I can hold them at bay at least that long. Everyone will know what they've done, before the day's out." 

"I can help with that, when the time comes," Floreal says from where she's sitting, cross-legged and plaiting her hair over her shoulder as she's listened to the conversation go on around her. She's done so in silence so far, but now she looks at Grantaire, leaning forward to better catch his gaze. "I'm only a low level tech, I don't know all their tricks, but I do know some. I'll help you find ways around them, so you can focus your efforts on the stronger walls they're bound to throw up in your path." 

"I would appreciate that," Grantaire says. He gets to his feet and nods at Valjean, then holds a hand down to Enjolras. "Will you come help us? Your voice will be just as important as either of ours on this video." 

"You're the ship," Enjolras says, wry. "He's the mayor. I'm just--" He gestures futilely, at a loss for how to explain that he's just one person, and not one of the important ones. 

Grantaire crouches down so he's nearer to Enjolras, very close and very solemn. "You're the one who brought us all together." He holds his hand out, holding Enjolras's gaze. "And you're good with words. People listen when you speak. Will you come?" 

Grantaire looks hopeful as he watches him, and Enjolras doesn't have it in him to deny him. He nods and grasps Grantaire's hand, and lets him pull him to his feet. Valjean is already on his, waiting for them. 

As they make their way to the door, Enjolras reaches out to touch his friends as he walks past them -- a hand on a shoulder or an arm, a touch trailed across a back, because it's been far too long since he's been able to do so and he's missed them. 

They smile up at him in turn, or reach up to clasp his hand, or lean back into his touch, and finally things start to feel like they're fitting back into place the way they belong. 

*

It takes time to record each of them, to figure out what they want to say and how to say it, and for Grantaire to piece the fragments of video together into something compelling. When they're all satisfied that it will get their message across, to any who are inclined to hear it, Grantaire shuts Enjolras's datascreen and hands it back to him. "Should we do it now?" 

Enjolras nods. "We don't have time to waste." 

"Come with me, then. We'll send it together." Grantaire glances at Valjean and gives him a quick smile. "All of us." 

They go together to the command center at the end of the detainment ward, a wide room filled with banks of monitors and dead video feeds and control switches. Enjolras expects to find it empty, or at least mostly so as everyone else goes about their own tasks, but instead it's crowded and there's an electric buzz of tension running through the room. 

Enjolras catches the arm of the first person he can reach, who turns out to be Feuilly. "What is it? What's happening?" 

The corners of Feuilly's mouth are pulled tight with tension. "We may have a problem." 

Enjolras pushes forward, into and through the group until he finds Éponine. They share a glance and he doesn't even have to ask. "The halls have been quiet, mostly," she says, her words low and quick. "Until about twenty minutes ago. Now we're getting a crowd out there." 

Enjolras makes his way to the door and looks through the narrow window into the corridor beyond. There are, as she said, people in the hallway beyond the door, pressed close into the hall's end, just outside the door. They're quiet, mostly, but they're _there_ , and Enjolras frowns. "What do they want?" He looks around, catches Floreal by the arm and pulls her over to the window. "Do you know any of them? Are they Security?" 

They're not wearing Security uniforms, but Enjolras wouldn't put it past them to come in everyday clothes and claim to be ordinary citizens, and try to gain entry past the locked doors in that way. 

Floreal looks through the window, eyes narrowed and gaze moving as she looks the crowd over. After a long moment, she moves back, shaking her head. "They're no one I know. If they're Security, I've never worked with any of them." 

That isn't precisely reassuring. He looks back to Éponine. "Have they tried to talk to us through the door? Have they said _anything_?" 

She shakes her head, looking grim. "Not to us, no." 

A sick twist of foreboding curls his stomach. Whoever they are, they're gathering forces, their numbers increasing by ones and twos even as he watches. Whatever it is they're waiting for, they're waiting until they're stronger, until their numbers are greater. Enjolras has faith in the strength of detainment's defenses, but he's not sure even these walls were built to withstand an assault en masse. "Have _we_ tried communicating with _them_?" 

She shakes her head again. "Figured it was best to make that decision with everyone present and able to weigh in. If you hadn't come back when you did, we'd have gone to get you." 

"May I see?" Valjean asks quietly, edging toward them through the group. He looks very, very grim. "If these men are here to try to take my freedom from me, I'd know who they are first." 

Enjolras glances at him, then nods and moves aside, making room for him at the door. 

Valjean comes forward, hands spread wide on either side of the window as he leans in close, looking out through it. Enjolras turns away to speak to Éponine when Valjean suddenly makes a sharp sound and says, " _Fauchelevent_ ," like it's supposed to mean something. 

Enjolras turns back to him. "What's that?" 

Valjean looks at him, wide-eyed and a little wild. "They're not Security. My word on it, they're not. Look." He presses a finger to the window. Enjolras moves closer, leaning in to see, but whichever one of the people outside Valjean means to point out, Enjolras can't tell. "Do you recognize him? Perhaps your friend will. He led him to freedom, after all." Valjean splays his hand wide across the door. "He was a prisoner until yesterday. We talked in the exercise yard sometimes. He wouldn't be out there if Security was, not on his life. Whoever these people are... I don't think they mean us harm. And I _know_ they're not with Security." 

Enjolras gives him a long, searching look. Valjean burns bright with conviction, but unease still stirs within Enjolras's breast. "Will you go speak with him?" he asks after a long moment of indecision. "You're a familiar face to him, while the rest of us are strangers. Will you ask him what he's here for?" 

"I'll go," Valjean says with a nod. He glances around at the others briefly. "You'll have to unlock the doors to let me out, though." 

Éponine hisses and Floreal glowers. Combeferre shifts his weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed and clearly displeased. Someone amongst the group mutters a grudging, "But we only just got you _back_." 

"They're not Security," Enjolras says quietly, holding Valjean's eye. "You don't know him, but I do, and I trust him. If he says they're not, then they're not." 

"That doesn't mean they're not out there with ill intentions," Joly says, looking deeply concerned and leaning on his cane heavier than Enjolras likes to see. 

"My daughter's in here," Valjean says quietly, earnestly. "So you can believe me when I say that I won't let anyone who means you harm in here, not on my life." 

_"Papa."_ Cosette frowns at him, disapproving, but Valjean just moves to the door and spreads a hand upon it. 

"Will you let me out?" he asks quietly. 

Éponine sighs and presses her mouth into a flat, unhappy line, but she moves across the room to the panel of controls and presses something that makes the locks clang open. 

It's the same loud, metallic sound of the locks in the rest of detainment, the same sound that admitted Security to his cell every time they wanted to hurt him, and Enjolras jumps despite himself. 

He doesn't allow himself to move beyond that, just stands there with his arms crossed, his heart racing and his breath coming quicker for no good reason at all, until a light touch on the small of his back draws his attention outside of himself. 

He turns and Grantaire is there, close and watching him with a quiet, concerned gaze. "Are you all right?" He keeps his voice pitched low enough that their words won't travel to those around them. 

Enjolras forces himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It helps a little, but not enough. "Yes," he says, just as quietly. 

Grantaire watches him for a moment longer, like he knows it's not true. Enjolras doesn't want to have to argue with him about this, doesn't want to do anything about it but _ignore_ it until it leaves him alone. But Grantaire doesn't call him out for the lie, doesn't protest. He just slips in close behind Enjolras, arms going around his waist and chin hooked over his shoulder, embracing him so that Enjolras feels surrounded by his warmth. 

"You are safe," Grantaire murmurs close against his ear. "You are loved. And you're surrounded by people who would fight to protect those things." 

"I know," Enjolras says quietly. And that helps, too. Not a lot, but maybe it's enough. Or maybe it's just the warm comfort of Grantaire's arms around him that has his pulse slowing, and his breath steadying. 

He stays within the security of Grantaire's arms as Valjean pulls the door open just enough that he can slide through to the hall beyond. And then he stands right in front of it, blocking the entrance, just in case the people outside are not well-intentioned. Enjolras watches him and lets his breath out slowly, listening as the pounding of his pulse in his ears continues to slowly subside. 

Most of the conversation is indistinct, their words blocked by the door and by Valjean's shoulders. But someone's voice raises in a cry of, " _Le Maire!_ " and that has Enjolras moving forward, catching Grantaire's hand as he slips out of his embrace to pull him along with him. 

Enjolras pulls the door open the rest of the way, though Valjean's shoulders are broad enough that they still mostly fill the doorway. Still, he presses forward to stand beside Valjean, so he can see out without Valjean blocking the view. 

Everyone who had gathered in the corridor outside detainment has turned to focus on them now. And while a few spare Enjolras a glance, their attention is focused on Valjean. There are more cries, more murmurs of " _le Maire_ ", and Enjolras turns to the side so he can look at Valjean, too. 

"They're not here for us," he murmurs. "They're here for you." 

Valjean, for his part, looks simultaneously chagrined and overwhelmed. He searches through the faces before him, then says, "Fauchelevent, what is this? Tell me what is happening." 

A man comes forward through the crowd, the one Valjean had pointed out to Enjolras earlier. Fauchelevent, the prisoner who'd only just regained his freedom, and had chosen to use it to _return_. Enjolras grew up with stories of Valjean, of _le Maire_ , of the courage and bravery of the man who rose up to stand against Security, but he's starting to think that the stories he heard weren't the half of it. 

"All this time," Fauchelevent says, when he gets nearer to them. "All this time, and you didn't tell me who you were?" He doesn't sound angry. He sounds wondering. He sounds joyous. 

Valjean's face creases with a frown. "You knew who I was. A prisoner, same as you." 

Fauchelevent laughs. "Not the same as me, no. I'm no hero. Never was." 

"Forgive me," Enjolras says, "but what are you all _doing_ here?" 

Fauchelevent gives him a glance. "Security's going to be coming down hard on all of you, after what you've done. We're here to stand between, and keep them from your door." 

Enjolras's stomach twists. "You can't do that. Security-- they have _firearms_. They've built detainment like a fortress, we're safe behind these doors, but if you stay out here you'll all be killed." 

"Firearms, huh." Fauchelevent just grunts and looks thoughtful. "Well, we'll have to account for that. But we're not leaving." He looks at Valjean again. "Word's spreading. I started it, I'm proud to say, but it's gone well beyond me by now. We won't be the only ones coming here to stand and fight for you." 

"I don't want anyone to die for me," Valjean says desperately. 

"Well. That's our choice, now isn't it?" 

"We can't take them all in," Enjolras says, low, hating it even though he knows it's true. "And we can't force them all to leave." He glances sideways at Fauchelevent. "You'll need to make your own defenses. There aren't any doors out here to protect you, so you'll have to find your own way. But you won't do us or him any good if you all just sit out here waiting to be slaughtered. That won't keep Security at bay more than a minute, and we're going to need more than that." 

Fauchelevent looks away from Valjean long enough to incline his head at Enjolras, a silent acknowledgment. "We're not here hoping to die, you needn't worry about that. We're just not going to run from it if it comes. But we'll do what we can, to strengthen our position out here. I'll talk to the others, and we'll sort something out." 

It's the best they can hope for, and Enjolras knows it. There's not much else they can do to help, but there is one thing. He tells Fauchelevent about the storage compartment down on Tau level, about how to find it amongst all the other storage compartments, and about the box on the shelf in the back room that holds crossbows and arrows with which these men might arm themselves. It's still not much, and not when Security has bullets where they only have arrows. But it's better than what they have now. It's _something._

Fauchelevent looks thoughtful. "I'll spread the word to everyone else," he says after a moment. "And maybe we'll go see about getting some of these weapons for our own, if the way seems safe enough. Thank you." 

Enjolras nods, the only answer he has. "You'll let us know if there's anything else you need." 

"If it comes to it," Fauchelevent concedes. "But I think this will do for now." 

Valjean lets himself be urged back inside, though with a great show of reluctance. When the doors slide shut and the locks secure, Enjolras turns to find the others all watching them quietly, their faces drawn. He can understand why well enough. Risking their own lives for this is one thing. Risking the lives of others, of those they're fighting for in the first place... 

"Right," Enjolras says quietly, and seeks out a glimpse of Grantaire amongst the others. "We need to send that video. If the people of this ship mean to stand between us and Security, we'd better see to it that they've got all the reinforcements we can get them." 

Grantaire nods. "When we do this, it's going to anger Security more than we already have. If Security comes for us and they're not prepared..." 

"We'll make sure they are," Enjolras says, solemn, and makes his way to Grantaire's side. He pulls his datascreen out and hands it over to Grantaire. "Send it. We need everyone to know what Security's been up to. We need their support, and those men outside are going to need it even more." 

Grantaire takes it, his fingers brushing Enjolras's as he does so. He hesitates just for a moment, prolonging the contact between them, before he takes the 'screen from Enjolras's hand and they move together to the bank of equipment, to send the message that's certain to bring Security down hard on all of them. 

*

For a long time, there's nothing. They send the video out and then they wait, and there's nothing. No Security come screaming down upon their heads, no audible outcry from the rest of the ship about the injustices that Security's committed and hidden from everyone. There's just the dozen of them, sitting together and waiting for their world to go mad around them. 

The first sign they receive that anyone's even noticed is a series of loud crashes from outside detainment. They all jump, and look to one another, and then scramble to their feet and rush back to the control room. 

Enjolras reaches the door at the same time that Valjean does. They both press in close together, straining to see what's happening outside. Enjolras's heart lodges in his throat, afraid with each further resound that he's going to look outside to find these men who came to support them outside dying for them. 

But when he looks, there's no Security fighting toward them, no one injured or dying. There are more people than there had been before, though. It seems more crowded than it had been in the hall outside, and there's a buzz of activity amongst them as they work, building up a mound of furniture at the hall's end to block off access. 

Enjolras loses all his breath in a rush. "Open the door," he says, stepping back. 

The others watch him uncertainly. Combeferre's the first to speak. "What's happening out there? Is it Security?" 

Enjolras shakes his head, too choked off with emotion for a moment to be able to speak. "They're building a barricade," he says when he can make his voice work. "Grantaire, open the door. I want to go out and talk to them." 

Grantaire looks reluctant, and like he's working his way up to rebellious. "Security's coming. If they're not here, they'll be on their way. That door's the only thing keeping us safe." He looks as though he very badly wanted to say 'keeping _you_ safe', and Enjolras would kiss him if he was closer, and if there weren't a dozen of their friends crowded in around them. 

"It's not the only thing," he says quietly. " _They_ are, and I want to go speak with them. Open the door, please." 

A muscle in Grantaire's jaw works, but a moment after that the locks release. Enjolras pulls the door open and steps out into the flurry of activity outside. 

He finds Fauchelevent at the end of the hall, directing people as they drag furniture out from their barracks and add it to the growing pile. Fauchelevent turns and sees him, and pulls himself up short. He pats a part of the barricade nearest him -- the leg of a table, Enjolras thinks, jutting out from all the rest -- and smiles. "What do you think about their bullets now?" 

Enjolras takes a moment to choose his words. "I think they'll still kill you, if they find their way through." He looks the barricade over. It rises up higher than his head, and for all that it looks haphazard, it's sturdy, too. Security won't be able to break through it easily. "I think it's impressive." 

Fauchelevent grins, sharp and pleased. "It's not the only one, either. There's others building their own, all along the hallways. If Security comes for you lot, they'll find the way slow going." 

Enjolras passes a hand over his mouth. He's humbled and overwhelmed and so, so afraid. "People are going to die," he says quietly. "We're not even at the planet yet, we don't know for sure that we'll be able to land safely, and people are going to die for this." 

"We're not doing this for you," Fauchelevent says. "We're not even doing this for him." He jerks his head toward the open door and Enjolras knows he means Valjean. "At the end of the day, we're doing it for us. And it's our choice." 

There's a sharp-edged stone lodged in Enjolras's throat and he can't swallow around it. He can't do anything more than nod and make his way back to the others, standing crowded in the doorway and watching him with expressions he can't read. 

"Leave the door open," he says quietly as he steps through. 

Grantaire gives him a long, searching look. "Security's coming," he says at length. "That door is our last defense." 

"I know," Enjolras says. "But it's not our first." He turns, looking back out at the people outside, working and sheltering in the hallway beyond. He adds softly, "It's a show of faith. Let them know we believe in them and what they're doing, and that their strength will hold. And if it doesn't--" He draws an unsteady breath. "We won't be able to save everyone, I know. But we'll be able to save _more_ , if our doors are already open for them. I won't have them fight and die out there while we hide behind our door and risk nothing." 

Grantaire reaches out and lays his fingers lightly on Enjolras's shoulder, his collar, a few places along his chest and his side, marking out all the places where Enjolras's bruises are still fading. "Nothing?" he says softly. "Is that what we're risking?" 

"They're risking more," Enjolras says firmly. "Leave it open." 

They leave it open. And as the day wears on, Enjolras and some of the others search through the detainment ward, taking stock of what they have available to them. He finds the food stores and it feels like a gift. It's not the fresh, flavorful fruits and vegetables they had on Tau, but it's food, and there's shelves and shelves of it. Enjolras starts pulling down rations, and he recruits some of the others to help as well, and together they pass the food around until everyone, both inside and out, has a meal to fill their bellies with. 

Enjolras sits hitched up on the banks of Security's equipment, positioned so he can see out through the door and watch the people beyond it as they gradually leave off their work and settle down by ones and twos to eat and to talk amongst one another. His heart aches within his chest, and when Grantaire leans in beside him and clasps his hand, it only hurts worse. 

Tomorrow, they'll reach the planet. Tomorrow they'll be drop the probes that Security should have sent, and find out if this is a place they can make a home on. 

Tomorrow, surely, Security is bound to throw themselves at these men and their cobbled-together barricades with all the strength they can muster. They'd all best eat and rest and smile while they can, because tomorrow brings something new and unknown, and there's no guarantee for any of them that they'll still be able to do those things once the day is out. 

"Come to bed," Grantaire says quietly, urging. He hooks his arm through Enjolras's and pulls, but Enjolras shakes his head, rooted to the spot. 

"No. I want to watch them," he says. While he still can. While they're all still whole and hale and they still have things they can laugh about amongst themselves. "I want to stay." 

Grantaire tightens his arm through Enjolras's. "Okay. Then we'll stay." He leans in against Enjolras's side, a warm comfort, and they watch together as night descends and tomorrow draws ever nearer.


	23. Chapter 23

The second morning that he wakes wrapped in Grantaire's arms, pressed in close against his warmth, feels like no less of a miracle than the first. He turns his face in against Grantaire's skin and sleepily tries to keep the world at bay for a little longer, but it's only a few minutes before silent tension runs through Grantaire. Enjolras lifts his head and finds Grantaire awake and watching him, his expression somber. 

Enjolras leans up for a brief kiss. "How far out are we?" 

"Hours. Maybe less." 

He shuts his eyes briefly, then nods and pushes himself upright. "Okay. There's going to be work that needs to be done, then. Any sign of Security yet?" 

"Not yet." Grantaire watches him from the bed, still quiet, still solemn. "I expect when they make their move, we'll all know of it." 

"Yes. I expect you're right." He dresses quickly, then waits for Grantaire as he climbs off the bed and follows suit. When they're both ready, they leave their cell, and Enjolras leads them in a detour to the food supplies to grab an armful of rations before they make their way back to the control room, and the open door and the men in the hallway beyond it. 

They're all still mostly bedded down, curled up alone or in small groups for shared warmth as they huddle under spare blankets stolen from detainment's supplies. Enjolras walks with Grantaire amongst them, speaking quietly to those who are awake, handing out rations for breakfast and asking about anything they might have heard or seen from Security in the night. 

There's little in the way of news. Fauchelevent said that the corridors beyond theirs have been barricaded as well, so it might be some time between when Security made their first move and when they'd managed to fight their way to detainment. They might be fighting even now, and Enjolras has to swallow down bitter bile at the thought of it. 

He sees, though, a few crossbows scattered amongst the people, propped on the laps of those sleeping upright leaning against the corridor walls, or the shape of one beneath a blanket. Enjolras is glad for it, fiercely glad, and hopes that those beyond their barricade have been armed as well. It might at least give them a fighting chance, when Security comes. 

When all the rations have been handed out, and Enjolras has had the chance to speak with most of them, he makes his way back inside. The others have started to rise as well -- he can hear Courfeyrac exclaiming over something, his voice distant but his enthusiasm enough to know he's the one speaking. Floreal is in the control room when he returns to it, her head bent over one of the monitors, and when he greets her she turns with a frown of intense concentration on her face. 

He meant to go find his friends and regroup with them, but the look on her face makes him turn for her instead. "What is it?" 

She gives her head a quick, tight shake. Now that he's closer to her, he can see past her, see the monitor she was looking at, where there's a display of the planet and the ship and their trajectory. "Everything's fine," she says, her words too quick, her voice too tight. "It's just-- We're close." 

He nods, and lets her find her way to the thoughts she wishes to speak. 

"Security hasn't come down on us yet, maybe because they don't want to risk disrupting our navigation when we're this close, and a second's lapse or a fraction of a degree could make the difference between entering orbit or getting flung halfway across the system, or getting caught by the planet's gravity and crashing down out of the sky. But they will." She taps the screen, and the small pulsing dot along their planned trajectory that marks the best location at which to release the probes. "We're going to force their hand, and it's not going to be long now. They'll make a move when we do, I guarantee it. They'll fight to preserve what they think is rightfully theirs. Their power, their control." Her throat works in silence for a moment. She drops her gaze down to the floor between them. "We might die today. Any of us, or all of us. I was just thinking that, if I'd known it was going to come to this, that it was all going to lead here, I don't know if I'd have turned a blind eye like I did the day we met, or if I'd have gone tearing off to report the breach the moment I saw you with him." 

"Do you regret it?" Enjolras asks her quietly. 

She shakes her head quickly, shakes it hard. "No. No, I don't think so." She gives a breath of laughter and looks at him again. "Ask me again if we both survive the day. I just... I didn't report you because I didn't see any harm in it. I thought it would be good for him." She smiles, but it's aching and infinitely sad. "I never could have imagined it would lead us all here." 

Enjolras doesn't say anything. He's not sure what there is to say, because while the details are a surprise, this has all seemed inevitable to him since that very first day, the day he met Grantaire and got his first idea of what Security was up to, and what secrets it was hiding. It was always leading here, to this, even when they didn't know it yet. 

She waves a hand at him, her mouth twisting on a rueful smile. "Go on," she says. "Go be with your friends. I'm fine, this has just got me in a pensive mood, that's all. I'll be fine." 

"I believe it," he answers her quietly. "And I'll go, if you'd like to be alone. But you should know that I _am_ with a friend." He reaches out and clasps her arm as understanding flashes across her face, and transforms her expression into one of startled pleasure. 

She doesn't ask him to stay, so he leaves her to her contemplation and seeks out the others. He finds Cosette in an open cell with Valjean, Marius, and Courfeyrac, and he doesn't linger long enough to hear what they're saying, only to notice that Cosette's looking cautiously hopeful and Courfeyrac's ears are pink and Valjean looks as though he's been struck upside the head with a beam, so Enjolras hurries on and leaves them to have their conversation in private. 

There isn't much to do, while they wait for the ship to reach the planet or for Security to make a move. But it feels important to seek his friends out, to sit and speak with each of them for a few moments. Grantaire is like a shadow beside him, and sometimes he joins in the conversations and sometimes he just sits pressed in close against Enjolras's side, a warm, silent comfort. 

Éponine, when he finds her, doesn't say anything at all, and she doesn't have to. She just looks at him, and he sees on her face all the same hope and fear and worry that's stirring in his chest. He sits down beside her, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder and knee-to-knee, and leans in against her. She grips his hand and lays her head on his shoulder, and they all three sit together in silence for long moments. 

"Okay," she says at length, like they've carried on an entire conversation in the quiet between them, and pats his hand. "Okay." 

He turns his head to look at her. She stays in profile, looking down at her knees. "I'm so grateful to you," he tells her quietly. "For everything you've done--" 

"Oh stars above." She moves abruptly, pulling away so she can turn to face him, and scowl at him. "Stop that right now. If you're going to go around saying your good-byes, you can go find someone else to say them to." 

It wasn't his intent, but the urge is there all the same, rising up in him until it seems with every breath that he'll choke on it. They might die in the fighting, or Security might overpower them and throw them all in cells where they'll never see each other again. They might succeed in holding Security off only for the ship to break apart in the planet's atmosphere. There are too many ways that this could all go terribly wrong, and he wants to be sure that the people he cares about know it while he still has the chance. 

But Éponine is scowling at him like she'll take a swing, or maybe just stomp away, if he tries it again, so he just sighs and shakes his head, and says, "Don't go. You don't have to do that. I'm the one who came and disturbed you. I'll leave you to it." 

She gives him a long, scrutinizing look, and he has the sensation that somehow that was still the wrong thing to say. After a moment she sighs and looks past him, at Grantaire. "Don't let him be stupid," she says. "He'll martyr himself if he's got half a chance. Don't let him." 

"I'll do my very best," Grantaire says, and with someone else it might have been a joke, might have been delivered with a smile, but Grantaire says it like it's an oath, perfectly solemn. 

Éponine gives him a long look and then nods. "Good." 

Enjolras leaves her with a hug, before the urge to say things she doesn't want to hear becomes too great to resist, and makes his way back to the control room, where Floreal is still watching the video display and their trajectory has inched closer to the planet. He's about to speak when the sound of a gunshot rings out, unmistakable now that he's experienced it before, and knows first-hand the sort of damage it can cause. His shoulder hurts just to think of it, but there's no time for that. He spins before his ears have even stopped ringing from the report, runs out into the hallway to where the people outside are gathered up close against the barricade, those who have crossbows gripping them tight and peering out through gaps in the structure. 

"Is anyone hurt?" Enjolras demands. 

Fauchelevent is there, and he gives his head a quick shake. "Sounded worse than it was," he says, and gestures to a table that's built into the barricade behind him, where the smooth metal surface has been dented by a blow from the other side. "It didn't make it through. Let them waste their ammunition fighting tables and chairs, if that's what they wish to do. Their supplies won't hold out forever." 

_Neither will ours,_ Enjolras thinks. But they don't need to hold out forever, either. They just need to hold out long enough to reach the planet, to drop the probes, and to decide on their next move based on the readings the probes send back. 

It's meager consolation at best, and it means even less as another shot sounds, and metal rings against metal. 

"Stay safe," he says, low and urgent to everyone close enough to hear. "You're not here to try to defeat them, that's a fool's errand. You just need to hold them back." 

Fauchelevent nods, and the others at the barricade do as well. Enjolras moves back, keeping low so as not to make himself a target as another shot rings out, and a fourth. 

"If anyone gets hurt, get him inside and shout for Joly and Combeferre." 

More nods, and Enjolras returns to the control room, where Floreal's been joined at the monitor by Grantaire, Feuilly, and Jehan. They're huddled together, bent over the screen, and the sight of the tension running through them all quickens Enjolras's steps as he crosses to them. "What's the news?" 

Floreal glances at him, and Grantaire shifts around to make room for him at his side. Floreal says, "Nothing yet. We're close, but we're not there." Another gunshot sounds, and she flinches. "Not yet." 

Enjolras glances at Grantaire. "Can we go faster?" 

Grantaire makes a low sound, like a strangled laugh. "Not without risking our trajectory. Orbiting is falling, you know. It's falling towards the surface, but moving at the perfect speed so that you never hit it. It's a delicate dance, and if I change the smallest piece of it, we'll either slingshot around the planet and back out into space, or we'll be falling for real, and this time we won't miss." He glances sidelong at Enjolras. He looks worn thin, a thread pulled taut and ready to snap. "No, I can't go faster. Not without risking everything." 

"Okay," Enjolras says, holding his hands up. "Okay. How long until we can drop the probes now?" 

"An hour." 

"And once they're dropped? How long until we know if this planet is even viable?" 

The corners of Grantaire's mouth go tight. "Eighty-four minutes to circle the planet once, and drop the probes. Another eighty-four to go around a second time, and pick up the return signals." 

An hour to get into position. Another three to gather all the data they need, and none of it able to be rushed. And every minute of it, Security outside, on the other side of that barricade, fighting to get through and stop them and heedless of whoever they might have to harm to do so. Enjolras swallows down the knot in his throat and takes a careful breath. "And once we have the return signals. How long for you to analyze it, and know if the planet's livable?" 

This time, the corners of Grantaire's mouth twitch, the faintest hint of a smile, but it feels like a breath of oxygen when he's been slowly suffocating in the vacuum of space. It feels like Enjolras can breathe again, and like maybe this might all be okay. "My processors are very fast," he says. "Minutes, at most. More likely less than that." 

It's one piece of good news, at least. Enjolras sways a little, and grips onto Grantaire's hand to borrow from his strength. "Okay. We need four hours, then, before we can know what our next move is." More gunshots from outside, this time a series of three, one right after the other. It makes all of them flinch, and sends up a cry from the hall that Enjolras can only pray is alarm and not injury. "We have to buy ourselves that time. They'll tire of being held off soon enough, and I'd wager that their ammunition won't run out before ours does, if we have to fight to keep them back." 

Grantaire nods slowly. "What do you want me to do?" 

"Can you turn the lights off in the hall? They can't shoot us if they can't see us." 

"I can." He looks uncertain. "But we'd put our people at risk, too. If Security decides to forego the guns and fight their way over or through, no one will see them coming until it's too late." 

Another gunshot, and another cry. Enjolras closes his eyes for a moment and shivers hard. "They're already at risk," he says. "Give me five minutes to spread the word, and then cut the lights." 

Another nod from Grantaire, and Enjolras turns and goes out into the hallway to see what's happening. 

He finds Fauchelevent helping a man toward him, one arm slung across Fauchelevent's shoulders and the other hanging limp and bloody at his side. Fauchelevent catches Enjolras's eye as he rushes forward, and before Enjolras can ask he says, "He's shot. Not fatal, but it caught him in the shoulder, and you said--" 

"I'll see that he gets to Joly and Combeferre." Enjolras takes Fauchelevent's place beneath the man's arm, and helps to take his weight. To Fauchelevent, he says, "Spread the word amongst our people. The lights are going dark, to blind Security so they'll stop firing on you. Make sure no one panics, and for heaven's sake, don't let anyone start shooting blindly at the tiniest sound. If we start shooting one another in fear, we'll just be doing Security's job for them." 

Fauchelevent inclines his head in acknowledgment. "I'll spread the word. And I'll see to it no one goes off half-cocked." 

"Thank you," Enjolras says. And then he wraps his arm around the injured man's waist in a secure grip and helps him back inside. 

Joly and Combeferre both come running at his shout. Combeferre gets to him first and demands, "What's happened to him?" 

"Shot," Enjolras says. "They got him in the arm. Non-fatally, Fauchelevent says, but I'll leave that to you to determine for sure." 

Joly reaches them a moment behind, moving fast but leaning hard on his cane with every step. He casts the injured man an assessing look. "He's not bleeding enough for it to have hit a major vessel. Fauchelevent was right, I expect, but he'll need the bullet removed and the wound dressed and sewn, at the very least. Help him in here." He tips his head toward the nearest cell, the first in the long row of them. 

Enjolras leads him inside and helps to lower him down onto the cot. Combeferre pushes it into the middle of the room, which leaves little space on either side for him and Joly to crouch, but at least gives them both access to move around to where they need to be. "Do you need anything?" Enjolras asks, hovering in the doorway. 

"Alcohol," Joly says with a grunt, and tears the man's sleeve open over his shoulder. 

The hint of a smile pulls at the corners of Enjolras's mouth. "I don't think they bothered with liquor rations for prisoners." 

"My kit, then. It's down the hall a ways, fourth cell on the right." 

Enjolras goes, and finds Joly's bag tucked neatly beneath the cot in the cell he's taken for his own. He brings it back at a run, hands it over to Joly and then gets himself out of their way so they can work. "You'll shout if you need anything else at all," he says, not a question. 

Joly hums a noncommittal noise as he rifles through the bag's contents. "We'll be just fine. Go on, now, see to the rest of our people. You're more help to them than you are to him. We have this under control." And with that, he turns his back to Enjolras and bends over the man, a steady stream of conversation running between him and Combeferre. 

Enjolras is only able to leave because he knows he'll be a distraction if he stays. 

He returns to Grantaire's side just as the lights in the hall go black. There are cries in the dark -- dismay, he thinks, and only from the other side of the barricade, he's almost certain. Fauchelevent did his job well, and warned their people of the coming darkness. 

"Will Security be able to override your controls and get the lights back on?" he asks Grantaire. 

"Perhaps, eventually, if they're very determined. Which I guess they are. It will take them time, though." 

Enjolras glances sidelong at him. "Four hours?" 

Grantaire's lips curve. "Depends on how clever they are, I suppose." 

"They were clever enough to make you," Enjolras says softly. 

" _Were._ That was generations ago." Grantaire shrugs one shoulder and catches Enjolras's hand. He gives it a squeeze that Enjolras knows is meant to be reassurance. "I don't know how long it will take them. I only know it won't be quick, and I won't make it easy for them. We need time, and it will buy us some of that. Time enough to figure out how to buy ourselves more." He lifts Enjolras's hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles, warm and lingering. Enjolras lets out an unsteady breath. "It was a good idea." 

It's only a good idea if it keeps their people safe, and it's too soon to say for that. But Enjolras doesn't say that because it will only upset Grantaire. He doesn't say anything, just squeezes Grantaire's hand back and leans in a little closer against his side. 

*

They hang one of the blankets up over the control room door, so the light from inside the room won't filter out into the hallway and give Security enough light to see by. Enough to aim by. And the sound of gunshots dies down with darkness cloaking the halls, thank the stars. 

When the display screen beeps into the silence that's fallen over all of them, Enjolras jumps. Floreal says, "We're in orbit. Position is good to deploy the probes," and it's said softly, but it makes Enjolras's heart race all the same. 

He moves quickly to her side, to stand before the display and stare down at it. The line that had shown their trajectory before is now a loop, a slight ellipse showing their orbit and a series of small, bright dots stretched out along their path, drifting gently down toward the planet's surface. 

It's a comfort to watch each new probe blink to life behind the ship, a growing trail of them as they begin their first orbit of the planet. Enjolras lays his hand over the lights, shuts his eyes, and prays to whatever power in the universe might be there to listen. He prays that the probes work as they're meant, that the centuries of disuse haven't worn them down. And he prays that the readings are good, that the planet is habitable, that they can _end this_ , because if it comes down to a long-term siege with Security, he doesn't harbor any hope that they'll be able to win. The only chance they have at all is that they'll be able to set the ship down on the ground before Security's able to break through the barricade. 

They've made it halfway around the planet, a string of probes laid out behind them on the screen like beads along a necklace, when the very first of them touches down. The light on the monitor changes from white to blue to indicate it, and Enjolras swallows around the knot in his throat. It's out of range of their sensors now, the entire bulk of the blanket between them an it, disrupting the signal. They won't know what the readings are, what the news is, until they've made it all the way back around. But Enjolras stands there and stares as the one blue dot turns to two, then to three, and he hopes with everything in him. 

There's a commotion outside before the number of blue lights is able to climb very high, the blanket pushed back and light spilling in across the control room floor as Fauchelevent sticks his head through. "We've got trouble," he says, and it isn't even necessary. Enjolras stares at the light coming in from outside and feels a sick squirm in his stomach. 

"They circumvented your controls?" he asks Grantaire quietly. He'd hoped Grantaire could have held out longer than this. 

Grantaire, though, looks puzzled, staring at the band of light across the floor like it's an enigma. "No. My controls are in place. The corridor's lights are still off." 

They move toward the doorway together. Enjolras pushes back the blanket and is blinded, lights shining right in his face. He throws a hand up to shield his eyes as Grantaire grabs him and drags him out of the doorway, drags him down into a patch of shadow where the height of the barricade blocks out the light, and Enjolras can blink the stars from his eyes and slowly begin to see once more. 

"Those aren't the corridor lights," he says, and Grantaire looks grim, his expression set. 

"No. They've brought their own." His gaze goes distant, a little unfocused as his attention travels elsewhere. "They must have an external power source for them. I could reroute the power from an outlet and turn them off, if they were plugged into the ship's power grid, but they're cleverer than that. I can't do anything for external power supplies." 

"No," Enjolras murmurs. "Of course not." His vision is clearing now, adjusting to the new levels of light out here. He tips his head back, looking up at the ceiling overhead, the banks of lights set into the ceiling panels, dark now. "Grantaire, turn the hall's lights back on." 

Grantaire turns his head to look at him for a moment. "Are you certain?" 

Enjolras nods. "The point was to blind Security. They've got light to see by now, and we can't change that. And they're blinding our men. It's turned into a disadvantage. If you turned the lights up here, people's eyes would adjust, and the lights Security's shining in their faces wouldn't be quite so blinding." 

Grantaire is doing it before Enjolras has even finished his explanation, raising the lights up slowly, so as not to further blind everyone on their side of the barricade. 

Enjolras risks a glance over the barricade, to judge how it worked. The lights Security is shining in their faces are still painfully bright, but Enjolras can at least make out the shapes and figures of the Security officers behind them. He can see them moving, moving urgently and with a purpose, and he ducks back down just as a gunshot rings out, breaking the silence. 

Grantaire stares at him with large eyes from a face gone grey beneath its color. His hand is gripped in Enjolras's collar as though he could keep him there with it. 

"Grantaire," Enjolras says, breathy and quick. "Go inside. It's not safe out here." 

Grantaire's expression flickers through surprise and hurt, and settles in an instant on stubborn resolve. "Not if you won't." 

Enjolras smiles at him sadly and frames his face in his hands. "I can help out here. I can't do anything but sit and wait inside." 

"You'd be _safe_ inside," Grantaire says, nearly a snarl. 

"It's more important that you are. You understand that, don't you? I know you do." Enjolras leans in, pressing his forehead to Grantaire's, and holds him close for just a moment. "I don't think Security will shoot you intentionally, but it's easy for a bullet to go astray. And if you were shot, what then? The whole ship would be lost. We'd all perish. You have to stay safe, Grantaire, so you can get these people down to the ground." 

It's been an effective argument in the past, but this time, all it does is make Grantaire's expression settle into one of obstinacy, his eyes blazing. "Then you'd better come inside," he says, each word sharp and angry. "Because I'm not going to hide while you're out here risking your life." 

" _Grantaire._ " 

"Just go," Fauchelevent says beside him, a hand on Enjolras's shoulder. He gives him a little push and Enjolras frowns at him, feeling somehow betrayed. Fauchelevent just answers him with a sad, crooked little smile. "We can handle ourselves out here. Go on, keep him safe. I don't know what it looks like when a ship grieves, but I'd rather not find out. I can't imagine it'll be pleasant for any of us. Go on, I'll give a shout if we need anything." 

Enjolras can't stand strong against the both of them. He lets Grantaire lead him back inside, feeling like a coward with every step. Inside, Grantaire gives him a dark, disapproving look, then pulls him into a rough embrace and just stands there with him for a moment, arms wrapped tight and face pressed into his hair. "I'm not doing anything without you, do you understand me?" he says after a moment, voice muffled because he still hasn't pulled out of the embrace. "I've done that already and it earned both of us nothing but pain. I won't let anyone tell me I'm obligated to do it a second time." His hands go tight on Enjolras's back. "Not even you." 

Enjolras shuts his eyes and presses his face in against Grantaire's shoulder. "This is about more than just me." 

"I know. But it's about you, too." Grantaire moves his hands to Enjolras's arms and grips them tight as he sets Enjolras back, enough that Grantaire can catch his gaze and give him an unyielding look. "I'm programmed to keep the people of this ship safe. _All_ the people. That includes you. Your life is not any more important than anyone's out there, but it's not _less_ important, either. And I won't do this if it means sacrificing you in the process." His mouth twitches, a slight hint at a smile, though his eyes are still so, so grim. "I promised Éponine." 

Gunshots are still ringing outside, and the familiar twang of the crossbow strings as their people return fire. Enjolras shuts his eyes and shudders. "You can't ask me to stand by and do nothing while others fight for what I believe in. I'm useless in here." 

"You're not." It's practically a snarl. Enjolras opens his eyes and looks at Grantaire, startled. "I need you here. I need your help." 

"Okay." Enjolras lets his breath out carefully. "Tell me how I can help. Tell me what you need." 

Grantaire hesitates. His mouth opens, but he swallows back the words he meant to say before he can speak them. His brow creases an instant before he turns away, moving across the room to the display with its blinking blue and white lights. "I can land the ship, when the time comes. I can bring her down safely. But not like"--he makes an aimless gesture, a flutter of his hand that Enjolras doesn't know how to interpret--"like this." 

Enjolras moves slowly to his side. Grantaire is tight as a wire beside him, practically shaking with tension, and so Enjolras keeps just a little space between them, until he's sure that Grantaire would welcome his touch. "What do you need?" he asks quietly, looking down at the screen with Grantaire. "Just tell me. We'll make it happen." 

Grantaire shuts his eyes like he's pained, and Enjolras can't understand why that promise would hurt him. 

"I can do it," Grantaire says again. "But it's a delicate procedure. The slightest variation off course and we could burn up in the atmosphere, or crash down onto rock. I have to be able to be precise, and I have to be able to respond quickly." His fingers spread wide across the bank of controls, like he's grasping for something. Enjolras stares at him in profile and hates the sensation that he's missed something, that something's happened in the space of a blink and he missed it, because suddenly Grantaire looks wretched and Enjolras doesn't have an explanation for it. 

"Just tell me," he says quietly, almost begging. Because whatever it is that's put such a torn look on Grantaire's face, Enjolras will do anything to fix it, if only Grantaire will tell him how. 

Grantaire takes a deep breath, filling his lungs and squaring his shoulders. "There's a delay in my communications with the rest of the ship right now. It's small, microseconds, but at the speeds we'll be traveling and with the precision we need, it might as well be minutes or hours. It feels instantaneous to you, when you open your datascreen and pull up a file, but it's not. It takes time for that information to travel through the wires, through the routers. It takes time to convert an electrical signal to radio and back again. It all adds up." 

"Can we make it faster?" 

"No. Not the way you're thinking. We can't make everything work faster than it already is. It's running at capacity. The only way to speed it up is to circumvent the bottlenecks. And the biggest bottleneck right now is the wireless." He turns to face Enjolras squarely. His expression is like stone, but Enjolras can read the lines and grooves of it, and there isn't anything he likes about what he sees. He looks like he'll break at the slightest touch, and his voice trembles when he says, "You have to wire me back in."


	24. Chapter 24

Enjolras presses the back of a hand to his mouth, fighting back nausea. "Grantaire," he breathes. "No. Surely there must be another way..." 

"There is no other way. Maybe if we had days to work on it, we could find something. _Maybe._ Weeks would be better. But we don't have that kind of time." He angles his head to one side, toward the door, toward the sounds of gunshots and crossbow-fire. " _They_ don't have that kind of time. We have two hours, and the more time than that we take, the more people are going to be injured or killed trying to hold Security back. There aren't any other options." Grantaire moves, a step closer so he can reach and take Enjolras's hands in his, squeeze them tight. It's a gesture that ought to be comforting, but it just makes Enjolras shake his head wildly. Grantaire's hands are trembling in his and that is _not helping_. "I will do what I must to protect the people of this ship," Grantaire says quietly. "I need you to help me." 

"You want me to put you back in your prison?" Enjolras demands, harsh. The words feel like glass as he spits them out, tearing up his throat. "You can't ask me to do that." 

"I want you to help me _save these people._ Will you let everyone die because you can't stomach the thought of it?" 

"Don't be cruel," Enjolras breathes, his eyes shut, his stomach in knots. "Don't act like you don't know what you're asking of me." 

Grantaire's grip on his hands turns gentler. He pulls a little, urging Enjolras in a half step, bringing them close together. He leans his forehead against Enjolras's and clasps his hands close against his chest. "I'm not asking you to imprison me," he breathes into the space between them. "I'm asking you to _help me._ " 

"You're asking me to put you back in a situation you hated." 

"You are not Security," Grantaire says, low, firm. "And this is not a prison. I'll be surrounded by friends. By the people I love. It's not the same at all." 

Enjolras hates him a little, and he loves him desperately. His words are confident, but Enjolras knows him better than that. He can see the wildness in his eyes, feel the tension in his touch. He hears the tremor in Grantaire's voice, so slight others might miss it, but it's there. He's afraid. 

And the worst of it all is that he's right. 

Enjolras squeezes his eyes shut and holds on to Grantaire's hands hard. "It's only until the ship lands," he says, his voice rough and broken. 

"Yes. Just a few hours. It's nothing." Grantaire's finger brushes the corner of Enjolras's eye, though he's almost certain he's not crying. "You gave up your freedom for the greater good. This isn't even so great a sacrifice." 

Enjolras doesn't know how to explain that a few weeks in detainment, a few bruises that are already starting to heal, is nothing compared to the decades and centuries that Grantaire gave up. He gave up who he was for his faith in Security and their mission, and there's nothing Security could ever do to Enjolras that could compare. But the fine trembling in Grantaire's hand is still working its way through Enjolras's skin, and he still looks as though he'll crack under the slightest pressure. He's trying to be strong, and Enjolras needs to help him, not make it harder. So he takes a deep breath and catches Grantaire's hands in his and presses a kiss to the centers of his palms, and he says, "Let me go get Éponine and Feuilly." 

Grantaire lets him go. Enjolras forces his legs to carry him away, breathing past the tightness that's constricted around his chest. He moves quickly, finds Éponine with her head bowed together with Combeferre, something on her datascreen's display that she's reading off to him. 

"I need you," Enjolras says quietly, and her head's up, her 'screen already sliding into her pocket. She's on her feet in an instant. 

"What's happening?" 

"Just...come with me?" 

Her expression is concerned, but she nods and excuses herself to Combeferre, then falls in at Enjolras's side. Her hand is light on his elbow, but steadying. "Are you all right?" 

"No," he says, because she knows him too well and she'd know if he lied. "Please, I'll explain in a moment." They don't have Feuilly yet, and he doesn't think he can do this twice. He's not even sure he can do it once, not without breaking. 

They find Feuilly, and he joins them just as readily as Éponine did. Enjolras grips both their hands and gives them a squeeze, grateful beyond words to have the friends that he does. They follow him, worried but waiting, as he leads them back to the control room, where Grantaire is standing looking anxious, his hands twisted in front of him. 

He drops them to his side as soon as they appear, stands up straighter and pulls his shoulders back, and it breaks Enjolras's heart. He doesn't know how he's supposed to explain to Éponine and Feuilly what they need to do when he isn't even entirely convinced himself that they should, but he knows he can't leave it to Grantaire to do on his own. 

He explains to them, quietly, trying his hardest not to let his own doubts color the explanation. Éponine takes a sharp breath when he tells them what they need to do, and Feuilly looks Grantaire over with a concerned frown. But they don't do anything but nod, they don't argue, and Enjolras is profoundly grateful for it. He has the same protests, the same worries, and he doesn't know how he'd allay their concerns when he hasn't even managed to settle his own. 

"We should be able to get this panel off," Éponine says, dropping to her knees in front of the controls and monitors. "They've got access to just about everything in here, so we should be able to find the wiring we need." 

Feuilly hums in the back of his throat and crouches down to help her, and in a moment they have the panel off, revealing a mess of wiring behind it that Enjolras can't hope to make sense of. He was always better with software than hardware, anyway. 

He moves a step back from them, moves to where Grantaire is standing watching them, his arms folded and his shoulders tight. While Éponine and Feuilly discuss the best way to patch Grantaire in without disrupting the systems or cutting off their own access, Enjolras takes him by the shoulders and turns him away, his back to the others so he'll focus on Enjolras in front of him. 

"Tell me you're sure about this," Enjolras says, low and quiet. 

Grantaire takes a careful breath, and then another. "I am certain that this is the only way to ensure we land safely." 

It isn't quite what Enjolras asked for, but there's a wildness still in Grantaire's eyes and Enjolras knows it's the best he's able to give. It has to be enough. So he nods and reaches out to grasp Grantaire's hands. He holds them tight. "I'm going to be with you the entire time." 

There's the slightest easing in the tension at the corners of Grantaire's eyes, at the edges of his mouth. "I know," he says, gentle. 

Enjolras hears it when Éponine starts cutting wires. Grantaire does, too: he goes tense, and shuts his eyes, a tremor running through him. Enjolras grips his hands tighter, and moves in closer. 

The sense of déjà vu is dizzying. It hasn't been all that long, really, since he stood with Grantaire like this while Éponine and Feuilly and Combeferre worked like this behind him. Then, they'd been cutting him free, not reconnecting him, but he'd been terrified then, too. And it had been a rough journey, but it had all been for the best, in the end. It had worked out. This would, too. 

"Enjolras," Éponine hisses at him, and he knows she's not asking for his help. Not with the wiring, in any case. 

This, too, is familiar. _Keep him centered,_ she'd told him last time. _Keep him calm._

"What do we know about the planet?" Enjolras asks him softly. "Grantaire. There were things we knew about it even before the probes, right? Things that suggested a likelihood for viability. It's why we dropped the probes, right? To learn more. What do we already know?" 

"Gravity is point-nine Gs." Grantaire's voice is strained. It wavers. But he opens his eyes and fixes on Enjolras. "Spectrometry suggests the presence of oxygen. Of water vapor. We need both to sustain life." 

"Good," Enjolras murmurs, cupping Grantaire's face in his hands. He brushes his thumbs over his cheekbones, over the corners of his eyes. "Keep going." 

Éponine and Feuilly do something behind Grantaire that makes his breath hitch, makes him shudder. Grantaire brings his hands up, fingers wrapping around Enjolras's wrists, and Enjolras fears that he means to pull Enjolras's hands from him and bolt. But he doesn't move, he just grips tight and presses Enjolras's hands even more firmly against his skin. 

"The planet completes a full rotation around its axis once every thirty hours. It's longer than an earth day, but humans are very adaptable. Chances are good that we'll become accustomed to the longer days without issue." He hesitates. A frown creases his forehead. "Combeferre may struggle with it. Circadian rhythms are entrained by the presence of external cues, the most important of which is light. Without that cue, he may find it difficult to adapt to this planet's longer days." 

"Combeferre is also very adaptable," Enjolras says, smiling gently. "I have faith in him." 

"Other cues are less influential than daylight, but we may be able to utilize a combination of them to help him adjust. He'll have to speak with Joly about it." 

"I'm sure they'll come up with something brilliant." Enjolras slides a hand to curve around the back of Grantaire's neck. "How are you doing?" 

"I'm good." His voice shakes a little, even as he says it. It's not entirely the truth. But it's not wholly a lie, either. "You're helping. Thank you." 

"Tell me more about the planet. What else do we know?" 

"It appears to have a remarkably stable axial tilt, despite the fact that it has two satellites to earth's one. We'll want to be sure to establish ourselves well back from any shores until we have a better idea for how they affect the planet's tides. We wouldn't want to have our camp washed out to sea." 

"No, I don't suppose we would." 

Behind Grantaire, Éponine makes a sharp noise that Enjolras recognizes well. It's her version of a victory cry, a noise of satisfaction in a job well done. Enjolras looks over Grantaire's shoulder at her and catches her eye. He lifts his brows and he doesn't have to ask. She's already answering him: "We've got the major systems wired in. Grantaire, do you want to give it a try, make sure everything's operating the way it should?" 

Grantaire nods, but something brief and unpleasant flickers across his expression when the gesture makes the weight of the wires pull at his hair, in a way they haven't been able to do since he was disconnected and routed into the wireless. "I-- Yes. Give me a moment." 

His gaze goes distant and vague. A moment later, the engines rev and then fade away, only to rise back up to normal levels. A draft stirs the still air in the room, and Grantaire nods, murmurs, "Engines, environmental controls, those are both good." 

"How about navigation?" Éponine asks, resting in her crouch with her arms braced on her knees and a strand of hair loose in her face. 

The rumble of the engines changes quality, if only briefly. Grantaire lets out a breath Enjolras hadn't realized he'd been holding and he nods his head. "Functional, or at least as much as I'm able to test without jeopardizing our trajectory. Did you wire in the grav controls?" 

She tips her head and looks up at him thoughtfully. "Are you going to need that delicate a control of them?" 

"Probably not," he admits. "But I _will_ need to control them, or we'll all be at near two Gs by the time we land, and I'd rather have everything on the same system. All wireless, or all wired, but it will slow me down if I have to pause to think about switching back and forth." 

Éponine confers briefly with Feuilly, then says, "All right, give us a minute," and the two of them go back to work. 

Enjolras slips his hand into Grantaire's and gives it a squeeze to bring his attention around to him, and off of what they're doing behind him. "Do we know anything about the life on the planet? Flora? Fauna?" 

He takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and doesn't flinch when Éponine cuts a wire behind him. "Atmospheric spectrometry suggests a high probability of plant life. Fauna we're not likely to know until we're on the ground. The probes will send back soil analyses that will tell us whether it's suitable for growing Terran crops." 

That makes a twinge of unease twist within Enjolras's stomach. "Can we land, if it isn't?" 

"We can't base that judgment on one soil sample. There were places even back on earth where the soil was no good for growing crops. But if all other readings are promising, yes, we can land. The gardens Floreal showed us were designed to be used for farming even after we landed, if it was necessary." 

"Grantaire," Éponine says quietly, rising to her feet and stretching out her back with a grimace. "Try the grav now, tell us how it works." 

Enjolras feels a lurch in his stomach, like the flutter of nerves or a lurch of dismay. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and Grantaire's smile is spreading wide across his face. "They work," he says. "They're great. Thank you, Éponine." 

She gives a one-shouldered shrug. "I don't know that I deserve the thanks. You're the one who's going to be doing all the hard work of getting us down in one piece." 

"You deserve it," Grantaire tells her quietly. "Thank you." 

She waves him off, but a hint of a smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, belying her pleasure. 

"Now what?" Enjolras asks him quietly, standing close. 

"Now we wait until the readings from the probes come in, and we act from there." Grantaire reaches back behind himself until he finds the edge of the control panel. "Help me sit? I don't want to catch a wire and pull out her hard work, but there's not much point in standing when I don't have anywhere to go." 

"Of course." Enjolras helps him, carefully holding the trailing wires out of the way while Grantaire lowers himself down to sit cross-legged on the floor, his back against the panelling. Enjolras sits beside him, a knee pressed to Grantaire's, and pulls one of Grantaire's hands into his lap to hold on to it. 

"How are you doing?" he asks him, low and urgent. 

Grantaire, for his part, takes some time to consider before answering. He takes a deep breath that isn't quite steady, and his fingers tighten around Enjolras's hand, giving it a squeeze. "I will be glad to get Éponine to undo all her hard work," he says after a moment. "But you're here. It helps." 

"I'm not going anywhere," Enjolras promises, and settles in more closely against him. 

*

Enjolras dozes a little, exhausted but too attuned to the sounds of fighting coming from outside to be able to truly sleep. Every burst of gunfire or twang of a crossbow string rouses him, his heart pounding in anticipation of disaster. 

And then, an hour into their wait, it comes. A series of gunshots is answered by a terrible cry, and a sudden clamor. The blanket hanging over the control room door is thrown back, and Fauchelevent comes barreling through, bellowing for Joly and Combeferre as a knot of men follow in behind him, bearing someone in their arms who's groaning wretchedly, and leaving a trail of blood across the control room floor as he's carried through. 

Enjolras tenses, ready to jump to his feet, but Grantaire's hand is still in his and that tethers him. His heart pounds with the need to follow after them, to know what's happened, to see for himself that everything is all right, or will be. But he pushes the impulse down and stays at Grantaire's side, breathing quick and shallow but sitting still. 

Grantaire gives him an amused look. "You can go," he says quietly. "I won't perish without you. You needn't stay for me." 

The permission is tempting. But Grantaire hasn't pulled his hand from Enjolras's, and Enjolras made him a promise. 

"They'll have found Combeferre and Joly by now," he says. The words stick and catch coming through his throat, but he forces them out all the same. "There's nothing I could do to help him that they can't do a hundred times better." 

Grantaire looks at him quietly, his regard like a touch on the side of Enjolras's face. "You're sure?" 

Enjolras isn't. He can hear Joly's voice now rising over the others as he barks out orders, and he knows what that tone of voice means, knows it's bad, knows that Joly's worried. But it doesn't change the fact that the wounded man is in better hands right now than Enjolras's. He doesn't need Enjolras, but Grantaire does. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Enjolras says again, and leans his head in against Grantaire's shoulder to end the debate. 

*

There's no sleeping after that, not even to doze. The sounds of fighting in the hall outside grow louder and more persistent. The cries of the injured grow louder, too. Enjolras shuts his eyes and holds on tight to Grantaire's hand, the only anchor keeping him in place. 

And then, over it all, comes a fast and frantic series of beeps from just over their head. Enjolras jumps, his heart in his throat all at once, but Grantaire tightens his hold on his hand to keep him in place. When Enjolras looks back at him, he smiles gently. 

"It's the data coming back from the first of the probes," he says. "It's okay." 

Grantaire means it to be reassuring, obviously, but all that does is lodge Enjolras's heart firmly in his throat. "We haven't completed our first orbit," he says. 

Grantaire shakes his head. "Not quite, no. But we've come around far enough that the planet itself isn't between us anymore. We'll start receiving the signals a few minutes apart, now, until we've made it all the way back around again." 

"What does it say? Is it habitable?" 

Enjolras can scarcely breathe past the thickness of hope and fear in his throat. Grantaire's gaze goes distant in that thinking way of his, and then he says, "Atmospheric spectrometry is confirmed. Viable levels of oxygen in the atmosphere. Nothing poisonous identified yet. Water vapor confirmed. Temperature is higher than we're accustomed to, but not incompatible with human life." A frown works its way into his voice. "Soil readings are null." 

Enjolras tenses. He scans Grantaire's face, reads the concern in the lines of tension that have appeared there. "What does that mean?" 

"It means the probe wasn't able to perform the soil analyses. Most likely because there isn't any." 

"No soil?" Enjolras breathes. The stone lodged in his throat turns sharp-edged and painful. They might be able to survive for a time on the hydroponics down in the belly of the ship, but it's not a solution that's viable for the long-term. They need soil. They need soil they can use, that they can farm. They need a planet that will sustain them, not just house them. 

Grantaire squeezes his hand, though his gaze stays distant and focused on something elsewhere and invisible. "It might have landed on a rock," he says quietly. "It might have any number of things. This is why we sent down more than one. One dataset means very little. We need more, for a fuller picture of what awaits us." 

"How much longer?" Enjolras demands. 

Grantaire hesitates. "For a complete picture, we need the data back from all the probes. Another eighty minutes, to finish our second orbit." 

"We don't have that much time." Their people ear still fighting outside, the sounds of it getting louder and steadier with every moment that passes. They're already being wounded. Another eighty minutes of Security's barrage and they'll start dying. Another eighty minutes, and Security may break through the barricade altogether. " _They_ don't have that much time. They're shooting them out there." 

Lines of tension bracket Grantaire's mouth and crease the corners of his eyes. "We need more data," he says, low and firm. "If we do this recklessly, we all might die a far more painful death than a gunshot wound." 

Enjolras trembles violently, hating it. "The minute you're sure we can survive on the planet's surface," he says, his voice shaking. "The _very minute_ , Grantaire. There are people dying out there for us. For you. Every minute we wait, that number grows." 

Grantaire lays his hand over Enjolras's, clasping it between both of his. "I am very aware of that fact," he says quietly, and then his gaze goes distant and vague again. 

The minutes creepy by. Every time the control panel beeps to indicate another beacon's signal has been received, Enjolras jumps, and then looks to Grantaire. And every time, Grantaire's mouth pulls tight and then he says. "Not yet. Signs are promising, but not yet. I won't set this ship down only to have everyone within it die as soon as they step outside." 

But bullets and arrows are still being fired out in the hall, and Enjolras huddles in close against Grantaire's side, holding on tight to him and hating all of it, hating everything. Fear has wrapped around him so tight he can't breathe, and when Grantaire lets out a sudden rush of air and says, " _There,_ " grips Enjolras's hand so tight the bones ache and says, "I've found a landing site. Close to water, but not close enough to be put at risk by tides. Temperatures are still warm compared to what we're used to, but I don't think we're going to be able to avoid that. Soil samples are... slightly higher in nitrogen than some of our crops prefer, but we can work with that." He pauses, his throat working in silence for a moment, and carefully pulls his hand from Enjolras's. "I'm going to bring us down. Things are about to get a little rough. Make sure everyone's secured." 

For a wild moment, Enjolras feels adrift without the connection of Grantaire's hand in his. He shakes the sensation off, though, driven into movement by the avid light in Grantaire's eye, and crosses the control room to tear the blanket down from the door and shout out into the hallway, "Everyone inside! Now!" 

There's confusion and bewilderment, and not a few people who shoot irritated looks at him over their shoulders before returning their attention to the fight. 

Enjolras strides out into the fray, grabs those people he can and pushes them toward the door into detainment, waiting and open. He finds Fauchelevent at the barricade, where he expects him, and when Enjolras grabs his arm and tries to tell him to get inside, Fauchelevent shakes him off and fires a shot at Security over the barricade. 

"Listen to me!" Enjolras snaps, and grabs onto Fauchelevent's crossbow before he can draw the bowstring back again. That, at last, gets Fauchelevent to focus on him, blinking as though he's only just noticed Enjolras standing there. 

Enjolras takes a breath and then leans in so he can drop his voice, so Security won't overhear. "He's taking us down," he says, grit out between his teeth. "This whole barricade is about to turn into some very large, very deadly projectiles. You need to get inside and you need to do it _now_." 

That galvanizes Fauchelevent into action. He drops the crossbow and climbs down off of the barricade to Enjolras, and Fauchelevent joins him as he makes his way back, both of them grabbing at anyone who's reluctant to cease fighting and dragging them towards detainment, until finally the hall is empty and detainment's crowded, and the hum of the engines beneath Enjolras's feet is starting to turn into a rumbling whine, the vibrations of it working up through Enjolras's bones until he feels as though his whole body might just shudder apart. 

He throws the door shut behind Fauchelevent, and almost instantly the locks slide shut with the heavy sound of steel against steel. Enjolras crosses to Grantaire's side immediately. Grantaire's sitting, the wires trailing across the paneling behind him, his gaze distant and unseeing. Enjolras puts a hand on his elbow to let Grantaire know he's there, but doesn't speak. He doesn't want to distract him. 

Grantaire speaks all the same. He doesn't move, doesn't pull his gaze into focus, he just says, "If you're crouching like that when we hit the atmospheric resistance, you'll be thrown from your feet. You should sit." 

Enjolras does as he says, settling in at Grantaire's side with the paneling at his back. He leans in against Grantaire's side and holds onto his arm and turns his face in against his shoulder as the vibrations strengthen and turn into a violent shaking. Around him, everyone else seems to be doing similar, settling down on the floor and gripping tight to one another. 

Every few minutes, Grantaire announces their progress, his voice low and calm as Enjolras's heart climbs higher in his throat. "Entering the thermosphere. Things are about to get a little rocky," he says. And, "Heat shields holding. We'll be warm, but we won't be in danger." And, "Retro-rockets activating," which is promptly followed by the whole ship giving a single, incredible jolt that jars Enjolras's bad shoulder back against the control panel and sends others, who aren't braced as well as they thought, rocking over sideways into one another. 

The shaking is constant now, ferocious. Enjolras feels sick with it, and is glad he hadn't found the opportunity to eat earlier. He shuts his eyes and holds on tight to Grantaire and tries not to imagine that it's the ship breaking apart in the atmosphere, that they're not going to find the floor torn away beneath them and nothing but open air between them and the earth below. 

Worse is the idea that they might just crash down into the planet, a terrifying plummet followed by a violent, fiery death. But Grantaire would say, if things were going wrong. Grantaire would _do something_ about it, so Enjolras clings tight to him and tries to remember to breathe, tries to have faith. 

"Final descent," Grantaire says, and his voice is still distant, still distracted. "Brace for impact." 

Enjolras clings to him, and presses his back hard against the paneling behind him, despite the discomfort in his shoulder. Even so, he's unprepared for it. The whole room seems to shake like an infant's rattle, bouncing them up into the air and then crashing them back down again, and the room is filled with startled exclamations and cries of discomfort or minor injury. 

But then-- then everything is still. The engines die slowly with a whine, leaving the floor steady and unmoving beneath their feet, and the air is filled with the low creaking and groaning of the ship as it settles under the weight of gravity for the first time in centuries. 

Enjolras unfolds slowly, getting his feet beneath him and then rising. He reaches down for Grantaire, catches him by the arm and the shoulder and tugs him upright, too. "Are we there?" he asks, his heart in his throat, so tight he can scarcely force the words out around it. "Did it work?" 

Grantaire blinks quickly, then brings Enjolras into focus. His distant, flat expression slowly transforms into a brilliant smile. "It worked," he says. "We're _home_." 

The sudden, overwhelming relief of it is nearly enough to take Enjolras out at the knees. But around them, slowly, others are picking themselves up and standing as well, are blinking around at each other in surprise and growing elation. And through them all comes Éponine, a burning light in her eyes and an irrepressible smile on her face and a pair of wire clippers in her hands. "I expect you want these," she says when she reaches them. 

" _Yes, please,_ " Grantaire says fervently. 

She works faster than she has before, now that it's not as vital as it has been to preserve the functionality of the ship's systems in the process. Grantaire's expression lightens with every snip of her clippers, his shoulders relaxing down from where tension had pulled them, his breaths coming deeper and slower until at last the final wire falls away and Grantaire leans forward, elbows on his knees, breathing hard. 

"I'll get these wired in again soon," Éponine says, rising up to her feet. "Later, when we've all had our fill of fresh air and solid land. For now, I'm going to go find Azelma and take a look at the fruits of all our labor." 

There will be lots of work to be done later, and most of it will require the ship to still be at least mostly functional. There are long corridors lined with storage compartments full of supplies that they'll need to bring out and set up in order to establish themselves on this planet. And somewhere deep in Security's private stores there are vaccines that will need to be administered to the rest of the ship, and a lab where Joly and Combeferre will have to work to create more doses, enough for everyone on the ship, so that Grantaire can move forward and learn what it's like to never again have to fear being seen. 

But all of that is for later. Enjolras grabs Grantaire's hand and helps him to his feet, then pulls him off to find the others, to find their friends and ensure that everyone made it through the landing. 

All the others seem to be doing the same thing, and they find each other in ones and twos throughout the halls, tucked into a detainment cell for shelter, making their way through the crowded exercise yard to get to the door and out. Everyone seems fine but for Joly, who's got an arm wrapped around Bossuet's shoulder and doesn't seem to be able to put weight on his prosthetic at all. 

"I landed hard on my bad hip," he says with a grimace at Enjolras's obvious alarm. "It will be all right, but in the meantime--" 

"In the meantime I get to carry him around like a bride," Bossuet says, grinning, and earns himself a swift rap across his shins with Joly's cane. 

"You'll do no such thing," Joly says, and he sounds fierce but the corners of his eyes are creased with secret humor. 

Musichetta hovers behind them both, looking simultaneously worried and fond and relieved. And between the two of them, they seem to have Joly well taken care of. 

When they've found everybody, and assured one another that they made it through the landing unscathed, Enjolras grips Grantaire's hand and they make their way out of detainment, into the corridor beyond, where the hallway looks as though it's been through a war. The barricade is gone, the furniture that made it up strewn about the floor like debris. Enjolras picks his way through it carefully, holding tight to Grantaire's hand with every step. 

The first stretch of the hallway is cluttered only with furniture. But then they pass where the barricade had been erected, and they start to find people, Security officers, some lying crushed beneath the heavier pieces, others wounded but living. Joly makes an urgent sound and has Bossuet help him to the side of a man who's lying flat on his back, his leg bent at an unnatural angle. He swears and tries to fight his way upright when he sees Joly, when he sees all of them. 

"Hush now," Combeferre says, kneeling down by the man's head to keep him still. "We're not your enemies." He reaches and gently takes the badge from the man's lapel, the uniform pin that identifies him as Security. "It's over." 

Combeferre and Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta wave the others on when they linger at their side. "Go on," Joly says. "There's a whole world out there. We'll be along when we've seen to the injured." 

Enjolras knows better than to protest that Joly himself is injured. He has Bossuet and Musichetta with him, and Enjolras trusts them to know when Joly's pushed himself too far, and to be the only ones capable of telling him to rest and actually being heard. 

They continue on, through one ruined barricade and then another. "This way," Grantaire says abruptly, tightening his hold on Enjolras's hand, and takes the lead. He guides them through the halls, up a level and through and then up again, until they find themselves in Security's domain, the very highest level, where there are windows studded into the walls and light pouring through them. And outside -- outside everything is green and blue and brown. The windows look abruptly like display screens, the scene outside like an old Terran painting or photograph, and it's only when they move and everything outside shifts perspective that it's revealed to not be an illusion at all. 

Up ahead there's a brighter patch of light, and a knot of people between them and it. There's the sounds of fighting, shouts of protest and anger as people try to press forward toward the airlock and the outside, and a small contingent of Security officers struggle to hold them back. 

"Stop this!" Valjean snaps, pushing forward from the back of their group and forging into the middle of the fighting. "Stop! What's to be gained of it?" 

The two sides separate a little, catching their breath, and look like they're bracing for more. But Valjean stands between their lines and he speaks to both of them. "It's done," he says to Security, and his voice is gentler than Enjolras would expect of a man who'd suffered so much at their hands. "Security's time is over. We've found our home, and we don't need you anymore." 

There are cheers and rallying cries behind him at that. Valjean gives them a look over his shoulder, and they quell beneath it. "Now," he says. "Now, there's new peril waiting for us out there, and none of us know what it may be. We don't need Security anymore, but we're all going to need each other." 

Enjolras leans in against Grantaire's side, listening as Valjean speaks to the men, watching as the tensions slowly drain out of both sides. It's easy to see in him the man that moved an entire ship to cast off the system they had known and choose him, all those years ago. He's a sight to behold now, and Enjolras wonders how much more so he must have been back then, before decades of detainment had taken their toll on him. 

Valjean talks them down, down from their fury, down from their fear. And when he's done, he turns to face the door and the bright light shining in from outside. He holds a hand out to each side, to Security and to the people, and invites them to come out with him to meet their new home, and to see what it holds in store for them. 

They move slowly at first, tentative steps and mistrustful glances shot sidelong at one another. But then it's a flood, a torrent of people flowing out of the metal halls and out onto the land, beneath the electric blue of the sky that is not quite the same shade that's depicted in Old World images. But it's sky nevertheless, a welcome change from the vast blackness of space, and as the people rush out to stand beneath it they whoop and holler and tip their heads back to stare at it, stretching so far up above. 

Enjolras waits, hand in hand with Grantaire, while the others make their way out. And when the rush has died, when they're all outside running about or staring at the landscape or dropping down to push their fingers through the earth in amazement, then Enjolras pushes away from the corridor's wall steps towards the door and the ramp leading down, leading out. 

Grantaire hesitates, so their arms stretch between them. Enjolras turns back to him, twines his fingers through Grantaire's. "Will you come?" he asks, a slight smile playing about his mouth. "Will you come see what you've done for us?" 

Grantaire comes forward slowly, one step at a time. He hesitates again in the doorway at the top of the ramp, runs his fingertips along the metal frame, tips his head back to look up at the arc of it overhead and then looks over his shoulder, back inside. "This is me," he says quietly, and his voice is broken and uncertain. 

Enjolras comes to him, comes in close and tucks his fingers beneath Grantaire's chin. He turns his face with that touch, brings Grantaire's gaze back around to him. "It doesn't have to be," he says quietly. 

"I don't know who I am without the ship." 

Enjolras steps back, the first step down the slope of the ramp. He holds his hand out to Grantaire, beckoning, offering. "Would you like to find out?" 

Grantaire holds his gaze for a long, long moment. There's a war waging behind his eyes, and his lips shiver apart as though he's afraid. But Enjolras gives him time, waits for him to make his own decision, and after a moment he comes forward and puts his hand in Enjolras's. "Yes," he says, the first, faint stirrings of a smile pulling at his lips. 

They walk down the ramp hand in hand, and if Grantaire's trembles a little, Enjolras doesn't mention it. And together they step down into the soft, loamy earth of their new home.


End file.
